Two years ago, the night of July 16 and heading into July 17, I found myself in Grant Street Dance Hall in Lafayette, Louisiana. I was there to hang out with my friend Toby, who was working that night. But he was working that night, so I was sort of propping up the bar, listening to the music, when in walked this curly-haired blonde hottie and I thought to myself, “MINE!”
And the rest is history.
Okay, so it wasn’t THAT easy. Even after somehow negotiating one of the more awkward first hours of knowing each other (long story in and of itself), there was another big issue. She lived in Louisiana and I lived in New York. And while she was very, very impressed with my rental car — a very manly, bright red VW Beetle — she wasn’t the kind of woman who was just going to let some dude follow her home that night. So we started texting and emailing and writing — ink on paper. Really. There were some visits. And, while neither of us can remember if there was an actual discussion about it, last summer she packed up her things, left a job and family and her own three-bedroom, two-bathroom house with central air and heat and a washer and dryer and moved into my palatial digs in Brooklyn.
We’ve had a lot of cocktails and beer. Quite a bit of brisket (seriously, the secret to a strong relationship is smoked beef).
Run a few races, including Cara’s first half-marathon (and first 10K and first 15K and, coming this fall, her first marathon).
We even went on our first major vacation together — to Fiji. That didn’t suck. But it did set the bar rather high.
Happy Anniversary, Cara! Thanks for making the move. Love you.
(All together now: Awwwwwwwww.)