Tonight, I throw myself in two
The best relationship is the one that slowly grows over time
A quarter century ago, I met a girl.
She spoke her mind with great conviction and intensity. It was captivating, my eyes narrowing to a shallow depth of field with her as the sole focus. It grabbed my attention in a way that immediately led me to believe there was something truly remarkable about her. She was brilliant, radiant, and fiercely independent.
We hit it off with hints of a will-they-won’t-they vibe to our budding friendship. She had a boyfriend; I was in the process of making a series of immature and poorly conceived decisions about dating. A romantic relationship did not come to pass, and we did not become best friends.
There were mixed signals, which is to say that I often misinterpreted things. I encouraged my closest friend to date her, because it felt right to see two very special people together. I leant her my car when hers broke down; she visited me in the hospital after I had surgery. On the infrequent occasion that I opted to be social, it usually involved being in the same room with her.
Our two families sat side-by-side on the second floor of a local restaurant to celebrate our college graduation. That’s the way it went; always adjacent but never together. Maybe that’s how it was supposed to be.
It took the most unlikely confluence of events to change that.
After graduating, we each did a year of community service. She moved to Seattle, and I remained in Philadelphia. Towards the end of that year, we reconnected online and learned that the other was planning a move to Colorado.
She was moving in with a close friend and former roommate of hers after the roommate and her boyfriend broke up. Earlier that year, I had visited those same people and immediately fell in love with the Centennial State. I did not want to go back East, but remaining was also not a realistic option.
Not long thereafter, I just lost my pending job, housing, and then girlfriend. The last pillar to fall was my employment. Immediately after receiving this news, I said, “Fuck it, I’m moving to Colorado.” Why I said that aloud in an empty room is unclear, but it made it seem real.
And so it came to be. We left our respective coasts and landed in the most reasonable of middle grounds: Boulder, CO.
I don’t think a first kiss ever felt as right or as good as ours did. It wasn’t just the delayed gratification of the years of that will-they-won’t-they situation finally reaching its inevitable conclusion, it was also the deep feeling that this was right. This is what was always meant to be. All of the stumbles, roadblocks, and detours that kept us apart were also the ones that ultimately brought us together, strengthening our relationship before it even started.
We took very different paths that led to our initial encounter and continued down those separate roads for years before they, in some backwards Frostian way, finally converged.
I jumped headfirst into our relationship. Her internal process was thorough and her actions deliberate. It was an easy decision for me to make. She was beautiful, intelligent, fun, friendly, and could get along with anyone. Essentially, she was my opposite.
I think I may have started our relationship before we even moved to Colorado. I glowed, gushed, and fawned when speaking of her. I declined the advances of a couple of others. It may have been a coincidence that we ended up together, but it felt destined at this point.
Two years later, our lives had changed quite a bit. We were living together in Denver. She was graduating from nursing school. I just lost my mom and my family was going through a good deal of turmoil. Naturally, this chaotic period was the moment I chose to propose.
I like to tell people she laughed when I asked her to marry me. That’s because she did, but only because she was so caught off guard. I botched the whole proposal, and ended up asking her to marry me when she was laying in bed. Still, it’s probably pretty obvious by this point that she said yes.
Soon, we were living back east and were getting married. That was 20 years ago today.
Two decades. We’ve spent roughly half of our lives together, basking in the warmth of each other’s glow, and sheltering each other from the miserable storms. Our lives are as one, and I cannot imagine life without her.
We’ve seen it all together: birth, death, cancer, survival. Personal, professional, and symbiotic growth. The shoulder of a t-shirt collecting tears when it feels like everything is falling apart. The love and support telling you we will get through this. The squeeze of a hand during labor pains.
That deep exhale in each other’s arms in the moment you know it will all be alright.
One recent moment that stuck out as special and important is one that might seem odd from the outside.
“Thank you for sticking with me through all of my immature bullshit and while I tried to get my life together,” I said during a casual conversation.
“No problem,” she responded.
She may not even remember this exchange, but I think it’s an important one. It symbolizes that, no matter what, we will always be here for one another. Of equal importance, we support each other without judgment. We are who we are, and that’s not just okay; it’s good.
She’s taught me how to grow, to be supportive and loving. To be caring and accepting. Together, forever, with and for one another. It’s how I try to live every day, because of her and how she leads by example.