This morning, bleary eyed and fumbling with my running clothes, I ran into a wall, dropped my cereal bowl and nearly fell off the treadmill. Some mornings are like this, and I have to wonder how my genes ever got past Darwin’s natural selection.

But occasionally (very occasionally), I manage to get it right. Two years ago today, I got it right. I married a man who may in fact be the very best husband on earth. (I know there’s some competition out there, but I really think he has a shot.)

A lot of my friends are married, too, but some of them are not. And the ones that aren’t never ask my advice, but if they did, this is what I’d tell them:

Pick the guy you’d trust to get your mother at the airport in the rain during holiday traffic at LAX. Pick the guy who worries about your transmission and whether your tires have sufficient tread. Pick the guy who would stay up all night with a sick cat. Pick the guy who lets you steal the covers, who gives you his jacket, who drops you off by the door when it rains. Pick the guy who thinks it’s great when you win, even if it means you beat him.

To the very best husband on earth, I love you.

And to all my friends who never ask my advice, he has a brother, and he’s single. I’ll be fielding applications.