It’s been 85 days since Billy Fike became my husband on the altar of St. Francis Solano Church in Sonoma, Calif.

It’s been 72 days since we landed at Los Angeles International Airport, thereby ending our 10-night honeymoon to Tahiti and beginning the rest of our lives.

After nine months of countdowns and knowing exactly how many days until the wedding (thanks to my trusty Knot account), I am still in this obsessive mode of tracking days.

I sat on a lounge chair on the deck of our over-the-water bungalow in Bora Bora (which looked more like the bow of a wooden ship) and lamented crossing the sea once again and jumping back into reality as a newly married couple with jobs and obligations.

“I don’t want to leave,” I said, staring at the warm blue lagoon and feisty trigger fish nibbling the coral at our feet.

“But Agnes misses us,” said MainMan.

“I know, I miss our puppy! But I don’t want THIS to be over,” I flung my arms up in an air embrace.

MainMan is a sunny-side up kind of guy. Nothing gets him down. Ever. I’ve learned to curtail my embellishing of details. “It was awful!” I’d tend to say about the parking lot at Albertson’s or the line at the Coffee Bean. “Really, was it awwwwful? Awful would be…” You can see where this is going.

When I realized MainMan was right and it was time to go home to “rescue” our puppy from Camp Carmel with grandma, I shouted — perhaps after a few too many rum drinks at our hotel bar — “OK! Let’s do this. Let’s go home and kick the s*** out of marriage!”

We toasted and high-fived and vowed to kick marriage in the butt.

Now I’m waiting for the next life-altering moment and a reason to start another countdown.

Will it be a baby? Will it be a move? We both can’t wait to find out!