Seven years ago yesterday, I started falling in love with my husband. He came to my rescue, when no one else would, after I was forced into an awkward set up with someone else. He skipped out on his plans and came to be there for me, even though we weren’t that close. That night, we talked about tattoos, travel and everyone at the table disappeared while we talked. We stood out in the freezing cold that night, once we finally left the restaurant, talking for an hour in the parking lot. When I finally drove away that night, I felt different. About everything in the world. About myself.
I started to cry, because deep down inside, I knew something had changed, something had begun in the star-sparked midnight outside our favorite dive cafe.
This was supposed to go up yesterday, but today will have to do. This is a post I wrote a couple years ago about that night.
Official “we became official/engaged/married” anniversaries are nice, but there’s something about being about to celebrate the moment that something began that I love. I love that I had the perspicacity (delicious word) to know that moment as it struck, and realize that nothing I’d even convinced myself to feel in the past came close to that life-changing moment.
