What My Weekend Was Like: {The Pizza That Brought on Some Deep Thoughts}

Yeah, did you read that title?

It's true you guys, I really got some deep thoughts along with my pizza order this weekend.

And now I'm about to get all serious up in here.

First lets say, if I haven't already said it a million times before....we love pizza. Like it's a love triangle type of love.

So because of our love for pizza, we eat it pretty regularly. And we know what we like. And that's where my deep thoughts came in.

Approximately At least 3 times a month, we decide on pizza for dinner.
We always order from Pizza Shuttle. Always.
We scour the Internet for coupons, first and foremost. Then Mike calls. {He tries to get me to do it sometimes, but I weasel my way out of it.}
He orders one large cheese pizza, and an order of cheeeesy bread {that's really how they spell it on their menu} with the garlic butter, instead of the marinara sauce. Always.
Then we go and pick it up. Together. Always.
I sit in the car, and he goes inside to pay. Always.
He brings me the order. I immediately open the boxes to make sure all is well. Always.
Then we eat exactly two slices of cheeeesy bread on our drive home. And it's not one for Mike and one for me. It's I take the biggest, cheeeesiest bite and then I give him a bite and so on and so forth until said two pieces are consumed. And it's not just any two pieces of the cheeeesy bread. It's the end pieces. And they have to be the exact same size. Always.
Then we get home. Always. {Thank goodness for this one.}
Then the routine really gets going. I take the box of pizza and the box of cheeeesy bread and put them on the coffee table. I open them and take half of the pizza and put it in the cheeeesy bread box {for me} and half the cheeeesy bread {the smaller half} and put it in the pizza box {for Mike}. We have to make sure that we get our share. Always.
All the while, Mike is in the kitchen, scooping out the two garlic butters into a bowl with a knife. Always.
I go to the fridge, get out the ranch dressing, and pour it into another bowl. Always.
Then I take the bowl of garlic butter and the bowl of ranch dressing and set them down on the coffee table. Always.
Mike gets napkins and drinks. Always.
Then we proceed to consume pizza to our hearts content while watching something juicy on television. Always.
And the entire time we eat I am paranoid about spilling on our newish carpet, and suddenly turn all momish on my poor hubby. Always.
Then the next day, there is always a little bit of leftovers. Usually some of my share. Mike isn't allowed to eat it. That is, not until I gift it to him. Most the time, I'll let him eat it, but so help him if I haven't actually gifted it to him first. And he knows this.

Always.

And we do all of this without saying a word to one another about it.

And it got me thinking. First off, I love pizza. Let's just say this is a constant thought throughout this entire process.

But this particular weekend, whilst going through all these pizza related motions, I had a moment of pure happiness. I didn't mention it to Mike. I just soaked it in. How rare is it that we enjoy the exact moment that we are in, instead of thinking of the moments that have passed or the moments that are to come?

I was able to take a step back this weekend and see how wonderful our pizza nights together are, while still actually experiencing it. I love that we have this tradition. I love that something that was never meant to be a tradition, became a tradition. And it's not just the pizza that's the tradition. It's eating it on the drive home. It's splitting it exactly even so we both get our share. It's doing something that I love with the person I love most. It's the sauces. Mmmm, sauces.

And it saddens me to know that this tradition will shortly end. That there will be no more Pizza Shuttle. That our coffee table will be in some other house in some other city. That our new pizza place probably won't spell it "cheeeesy bread". That one day there will be kiddos to chase around and this little tradition of who does what will probably be drastically altered {and altered, and altered...}. Not to mention, we'll probably be sitting around the kitchen table. No my kids won't be eating pizza on the new carpet. No way, dude.

But it also excites me. Yes, our current pizza tradition will change. But a new one will start. I do have hope that we will find pizza that is afforable and ohsotasty again {even though I am a little skeptical}. We will have kids one day and it'll be the best day ever. And we will still somehow have sauces and drinks and napkins and our even share of the pizza.

I am just glad that I was able to realize the joy that this tradition brings me, before it's just a memory.