John and I once joked that we’re less like Prince Charming and Cinderella and more like Shrek and Fiona. And if you need proof, let me tell you about the day a turkey sandwich betrayed me.
This whole story? It’s the fault of a sandwich cheerfully named Berry Good for You. Turkey. Lettuce. Raspberry mayo. Wheatberry bread. It looked wholesome enough — the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a Pinterest photo next to a mason jar of lemon water. But paired with a hot cocoa? Let’s just say my stomach filed a formal complaint.
That afternoon, I was at the school helping my daughter and her friends get ready for a color guard competition. My official role: hair wrangler. I’d set up a chair and a music stand loaded with hairspray, bobby pins, curling irons, and rubber bands — a full beauty arsenal. I stood the whole time, cycling through girl after girl, each one needing curls teased and pinned within an inch of their lives. Somewhere after a few heads of hair, I started to feel it — that slow wave of nausea that makes your skin feel too warm but I pushed it down, determined to keep going.
When my daughter finally sat in the chair, I knew I had to work fast. They were on a competition time limit, and I was on a very different kind of time limit. I excused myself, splashed cold water on my face, and grabbed a bottle of water from the vending machine. Then I found a quiet bench in the hallway and sat down until the spinning slowed. I decided to head home, cool off, and come back later for the competition. The only thing I knew I couldn’t do in my woozy state? Help my daughter glue on her false eyelashes. At that moment, I didn’t trust myself not to glue them directly to her forehead.
By the time I got in my car, I had the A/C blasting and told myself fresh air would fix everything. I didn’t bother with music — I was laser-focused on getting home. It was only about three miles from the school, and I thought if I just kept moving, I could make it.
I pulled out of the parking lot, made it through a major intersection and then my insides gave a low, gurgling Jurassic Park roar. I tried to make it to the turn lane — vision blurring, palms sweating — thinking, Just get off the main road. Just get somewhere less public.
Nope.
It started before I even cleared the lane. Passing cars on both sides got an unexpected matinee performance. I locked horrified eyes with at least one driver mid-puke, and all I could think was, We will both remember this forever. It was like that scene in Carrie, when she’s crowned prom queen and then gets drenched from head to toe — except instead of blood, it was all gooey lunch bits, and I didn’t get a tiara.
And here’s the kicker — a week earlier, we had promised this car to our daughter, a brand-new driver. “As soon as Mom gets a new car next month, this one is yours!” She’d been picturing her new freedom for days. This was not the custom interior she had in mind. When we told her about the incident — and that I wouldn’t be making it to the competition that day — her face cycled through shock, concern, nausea, and finally the dawning realization that her future car had just been compromised.
I finally managed to get the car into the first place I could pull over — a lonely back alley behind a HotBox Pizza restaurant. That’s where the flood finally slowed enough for me to breathe. I reached for my phone, only to find it completely covered.
It wouldn’t register my fingerprint.
It wouldn’t recognize my face.
So there I was — sweating, crying, gagging — begging Siri through full-on ugly sobs to call John. Siri, in her infinite unhelpfulness, kept calmly asking, “Who would you like to call?” like we were playing the world’s worst game show.
This is where the fairytales leave out the good stuff. The vows talk about sickness and health, richer or poorer — but they never say “while scraping raspberry mayo out of a seatbelt” or “when you give your wife the shirt off of your back as she vomit-sobs in a parking lot.”
When John showed up, it was all hands on deck. He didn’t shame me. He didn’t flinch. He just jumped into action — even holding my hair back as I threw up again. That is marriage gold right there. And here’s the thing: this is not a one-off act of heroism. This is who he is.
Over the years, we’ve both shown up for each other in moments that were far from glamorous. We’ve navigated layoffs, flooded bathrooms, late-night fevers, and the kind of road trips where “adventure” meant rerouting through the middle of nowhere because Google Maps betrayed us. We’ve stood side-by-side at funerals, cheered from the stands at our kids’ milestones, and tag-teamed grocery store runs when one of us looked like we might cry in the produce section because we are just that tired.
We’ve both been the one holding the flashlight while the other swore under their breath trying to fix a dryer that required contortion to replace the heat sensor. We’ve both been the one handing over the towel, the tool, the snack, or the Tums. We’ve both cleaned up after messes we didn’t make, simply because we knew the other couldn’t do it alone.
That’s the quiet, steady magic of a marriage that lasts. It’s not built in ballrooms or royal banquets. It’s built in the swamp. Because when you strip away the polished moments, love is choosing each other when it’s inconvenient, unflattering, and downright gross. It’s seeing the worst of each other and deciding — yep, still in.
We’ve joked that we’re Shrek and Fiona, but maybe that’s the point: the castle was never the dream. The dream was to have someone who would show up in the muck, laugh with you while you’re both ankle-deep, and pull you out when you’re stuck.
And John? He’s my someone.
Once I got home, showered, and restored some dignity, I decided to try tackling the car myself.
Vomit. Was. Everywhere.
The seatbelt? Soaked.
Under the seats? Flooded.
Between the console and floorboard? Hazardous.
I scrubbed until my arms ached. I wrapped the seatbelt in towels so my clothes wouldn’t absorb the smell on the way to work. And because my optimism clearly hadn’t learned its lesson, I went out and bought tropical-scented air fresheners — one for every cupholder. All eight of them. My car looked like it had been sponsored by a questionable island resort and smelled like pineapple-sour-milk sadness. I rolled the windows down and left it in the garage, praying for a breeze, a miracle, or spontaneous combustion.
After a week of watery eyes and gag reflex exercises, we caved and paid for a professional cleaning. It cost a small fortune. And they had to do not one but two ozone treatments. Even the professionals needed a moment. They also had to remove both front seats because apparently my aim was… expansive. It was under the seats on both sides, like my stomach had gone for bonus points in coverage.
Whether it’s tackling something big and overwhelming or something small and ridiculous, John and I end up in it together — sleeves rolled up, laughing through the gagging, figuring it out as we go. Not because it’s fun (trust me, this was not fun), but because this is what we do. This is who we are. We’re not afraid of the swamp — we’ve made a life here. And it turns out, the swamp has been pretty good to us.
If we were Shrek and Fiona, our vows wouldn’t sound like a fairytale. They’d sound like this:
John, I promise to keep showing up in the mess — not just the easy days, but the days that smell like sour milk and require bleach wipes. I promise to laugh with you when things are ridiculous, to cry with you when life is heavy, and to fight for us no matter what swamp we’re slogging through.
And you? You’ve already kept every vow that matters. You’ve loved me when I was hard to love. You’ve stood steady when the ground felt shaky. You’ve carried the load when I couldn’t, and you’ve reminded me over and over that real love isn’t fragile. It’s strong. It’s stubborn. It’s us. Not polished. Not perfect. But true.
So here we are, another year married. And while we’re not riding off into the sunset in a glittering carriage, we are driving a car that’s finally vomit-free. And honestly? That feels like its own kind of magic. Because just like Fiona discovered — true love doesn’t turn you into something picture-perfect. It lets you be fully yourself, mess and all, and still be chosen every single day.
John, you’re my calm in the chaos, my co-conspirator in sarcasm, my safe place when the world feels too loud. You’re the one who shows up — in the big moments and in the mess — and that’s better than any fairytale ending I could’ve imagined.
Here’s to another year of adventures, eye rolls, late-night talks, and loving each other fiercely — ogre ears and all. 💚
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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