Love stories are a funny thing. I don't remember the moment I first saw Mike, or the first conversation we had. Yet somehow, it's like my life is divided into two eras: the time between being born and meeting him, and everything after that, forever and always. The dividing line is a little blurry, some of the details have faded, the interaction of time with memory creates subtle subconscious edits to the narrative. But here's my version of the story I've been lucky enough to live as it unfolds --
One night, in December of 2013, a girl I knew from recovery asked me if I wanted to go to a 10 pm meeting in South Austin with her. It was a meeting I'd never been to before--I lived north of the river at the time, I usually didn't go to late meetings, and, as a creature of rigid routine, I'm really not sure what compelled me to go to that meeting on that night. But I did. And, as it turned out, I kept going back, nearly every night, for the next two years or so. I quickly felt at home there, and I began to join people for coffee before the meeting, and even stick around after and go out for dinner.
Mike was an integral part of that group of friends--he always seemed to be around, sometimes at the periphery, often sitting quietly, looking at his phone; other times the center of attention, sharing stories or bad jokes. It didn't take long for me to pick up on the fact that he was someone who had gained a wealth of wisdom through his experiences, someone who was proud of his accomplishments but honest about his shortcomings, someone who would do anything for those he cared about.
In those first months, we'd frequently hang out in a group setting, only rarely spending time without others around, though some time later we acknowledged that we'd both, consciously or not, begun to seek out each other's company, whether it was trying to sit next to each other at dinner, or getting to coffee early in hopes that the other would be there.
Once, we were out at dinner with a big group of friends and ended up sitting next to each other. Because Mike would sometimes pontificate on various topics on which he had strong opinions, and he occasionally needed to be told to leave his high horse at the door, we were joking about his spirit animal (or imaginary companion animal?) being a Clydesdale. More specifically, a Clydesdale on top of a soapbox. He asked me what was under the soapbox, and without hesitating, I said "It's turtles, all the way down". In retrospect, of course he got the reference, and of course that is exactly the answer he'd been looking for, but at the time, it was a delightful shock to both of us that it played out that way. Another time, we were standing around with a bunch of people who were talking about how the full moon makes people a little crazy. Mike said "That's lunacy!" No one else batted an eye, but I laughed hysterically. It was little moments like that when we realized we connected with each other in a way we didn't with most other people.
As the months wore on, we began talking more frequently, calling each other, occasionally meeting up for coffee just the two of us. Our trust in each other as friends and confidants grew deeper. We'd often go to each other for relationship advice--he'd show me pictures of women he'd met on Tinder and ask my opinion; I'd recount stories of interactions I'd had with guys and ask for his perspective.
One night, we were sitting outside at our coffee shop, and I was expressing my frustrations about being in my late 20s and not being in a serious relationship. I was afraid my standards were too high, that I'd never meet someone who had all the qualities I considered "must haves" in a partner. It's not too hard to find someone who is intelligent, or who has the right balance of seriousness and sarcasm, or who has an intimate understanding of recovery, or a deep appreciation of language and words--it's much more difficult to find one person who checks all those boxes. Mike told me not to lower my standards, and that it was okay to keep "must love words" in my metaphorical personal ad. Little did I know at the time that he'd turn out to be my "must love words".
Throughout this time, I'd had several friends ask me if I'd ever consider dating Mike, and we even mutual acquaintances who assumed we were together. I always laughed it off --what an absurd idea, I'd never date Mike. We were too good of friends, plus it would never work. Our lifestyles were too different, we didn't have enough common interests. Or whatever. Anyway, others saw something between us that we didn't see.
On February 7, 2015, after over a year of friendship with this person I felt I'd known for a lifetime, the universe decided it was time for us to see what our friends had seen all along. We'd both recently gotten out of relationships and were feeling pretty lousy. We had already established the habit of turning to each other for comfort and conversation on the friendship level, so it was only natural that we would be there for each other that night. I think he asked if I wanted him to come over, or maybe I asked if he would, I can't remember. I do remember sitting on my couch next to him, watching episodes of "Law and Order" and talking. Maybe he put his arm around me, or maybe I rested my head on his shoulder, I don't know, but at some point it was clear that we had to acknowledge the depth of the connection we felt with one another and evaluate the direction our friendship was heading. I remember being terrified and thinking "this cannot happen"--our friendship had become so important to me, and I didn't have a great track record with relationships. I was terrified that if we started a relationship, I'd somehow screw it up, and I'd lose the friendship. But I knew I couldn't imagine my life without him in it.
The next day (or maybe it was a few days later), I met up with a close friend to tell her what was happening. I made a big production out of it, saying I was going to buy her coffee because it was the least I could do given the shocking news I was about to bombard her with. After I finished my fearful, excited rambling, she looked at me, unfazed, and said "Well that's obvious". When I asked her why she didn't tell me before, she said "We thought you knew!!!" The universe had given us the blind spot exactly where we needed it, for exactly as long as we needed it. When we were ready, we were able to see.
One night that first week, we went on what you might say was our "first date" - to 888, a Pan-Asian restaurant where we'd previously shared many laughs and good conversations over late night green curry with friends. Seriously, their green curry is so good there. I don't remember much of what we talked about, but I'll never forget the words he said as we were discussing how to approach the relationship going forward: "All I ask is your complete willingness to try".
The first few weeks, maybe months, of dating were a whirlwind of emotions as we adjusted to the new role we had in each other's lives. Due to logistical factors about our individual circumstances, we ended up moving in together earlier in our relationship than was probably reasonable, objectively speaking, if it's even reasonable to speak objectively about such things. But we maintained our "complete willingness to try," and we adapted fairly easily to sharing a living space.
Fast forward almost two years, a couple apartments, two new cars, several promotions at work for each of us, and a whole lot of growing together and strengthening our partnership. We started to talk about committing our lives to each other. Eventually he told me he had a plan to propose, and he gave me a one-word hint: "Oink". I puzzled over that for months, trying to get him to give me more clues, asking coworkers what they thought it meant.
Then, on December 30, 2016, we were getting ready to go out to dinner at Odd Duck. He'd made me believe it was my idea to go out to dinner to celebrate the New Year a day early, because I don't like to be out with all the crowds, and being on the roads late at night on drinking holidays makes me nervous. I remember I had mentioned to my boss as I was leaving work that day that Mike and I were going to dinner, and he asked if I expected a proposal. I think I said "No, I guarantee he won't ask me tonight!" Anyway, we got dressed and ready to go, and as I came downstairs, I might have made a comment on the dress I was wearing, or my coat, which I didn't think looked right with the dress. Mike said something like "I have just the thing to go with that" and went back upstairs to grab something. That's the moment I suspected what was about to happen. I remember looking at my reflection in the sliding door to our balcony and taking a deep breath. He came back downstairs, got down on one knee, and said "Katie, I have loved you since the turtles". I don't remember what was said after that, other than there was some squealing and some repeated questioning along the lines of "Is this really happening?!" When I got over the shock of the moment, he explained the hint - apparently December 30 is National Bacon Day!
In the year and a half since I said "Yes," Mike has continued to make me a better version of myself, one day at a time. We've been through a lot of life's ups and downs in the past few years, and through all the changes, the joyful parts and the challenges, we've begun to build a life together on the unshakeable foundation of a solid friendship. As Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote, "Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction". In that sense, Mike is my perfect teammate in this life.
I look forward to a lifetime of learning and endless adventures with you, babe!
One night, in December of 2013, a girl I knew from recovery asked me if I wanted to go to a 10 pm meeting in South Austin with her. It was a meeting I'd never been to before--I lived north of the river at the time, I usually didn't go to late meetings, and, as a creature of rigid routine, I'm really not sure what compelled me to go to that meeting on that night. But I did. And, as it turned out, I kept going back, nearly every night, for the next two years or so. I quickly felt at home there, and I began to join people for coffee before the meeting, and even stick around after and go out for dinner.
Mike was an integral part of that group of friends--he always seemed to be around, sometimes at the periphery, often sitting quietly, looking at his phone; other times the center of attention, sharing stories or bad jokes. It didn't take long for me to pick up on the fact that he was someone who had gained a wealth of wisdom through his experiences, someone who was proud of his accomplishments but honest about his shortcomings, someone who would do anything for those he cared about.
In those first months, we'd frequently hang out in a group setting, only rarely spending time without others around, though some time later we acknowledged that we'd both, consciously or not, begun to seek out each other's company, whether it was trying to sit next to each other at dinner, or getting to coffee early in hopes that the other would be there.
Once, we were out at dinner with a big group of friends and ended up sitting next to each other. Because Mike would sometimes pontificate on various topics on which he had strong opinions, and he occasionally needed to be told to leave his high horse at the door, we were joking about his spirit animal (or imaginary companion animal?) being a Clydesdale. More specifically, a Clydesdale on top of a soapbox. He asked me what was under the soapbox, and without hesitating, I said "It's turtles, all the way down". In retrospect, of course he got the reference, and of course that is exactly the answer he'd been looking for, but at the time, it was a delightful shock to both of us that it played out that way. Another time, we were standing around with a bunch of people who were talking about how the full moon makes people a little crazy. Mike said "That's lunacy!" No one else batted an eye, but I laughed hysterically. It was little moments like that when we realized we connected with each other in a way we didn't with most other people.
As the months wore on, we began talking more frequently, calling each other, occasionally meeting up for coffee just the two of us. Our trust in each other as friends and confidants grew deeper. We'd often go to each other for relationship advice--he'd show me pictures of women he'd met on Tinder and ask my opinion; I'd recount stories of interactions I'd had with guys and ask for his perspective.
One night, we were sitting outside at our coffee shop, and I was expressing my frustrations about being in my late 20s and not being in a serious relationship. I was afraid my standards were too high, that I'd never meet someone who had all the qualities I considered "must haves" in a partner. It's not too hard to find someone who is intelligent, or who has the right balance of seriousness and sarcasm, or who has an intimate understanding of recovery, or a deep appreciation of language and words--it's much more difficult to find one person who checks all those boxes. Mike told me not to lower my standards, and that it was okay to keep "must love words" in my metaphorical personal ad. Little did I know at the time that he'd turn out to be my "must love words".
Throughout this time, I'd had several friends ask me if I'd ever consider dating Mike, and we even mutual acquaintances who assumed we were together. I always laughed it off --what an absurd idea, I'd never date Mike. We were too good of friends, plus it would never work. Our lifestyles were too different, we didn't have enough common interests. Or whatever. Anyway, others saw something between us that we didn't see.
On February 7, 2015, after over a year of friendship with this person I felt I'd known for a lifetime, the universe decided it was time for us to see what our friends had seen all along. We'd both recently gotten out of relationships and were feeling pretty lousy. We had already established the habit of turning to each other for comfort and conversation on the friendship level, so it was only natural that we would be there for each other that night. I think he asked if I wanted him to come over, or maybe I asked if he would, I can't remember. I do remember sitting on my couch next to him, watching episodes of "Law and Order" and talking. Maybe he put his arm around me, or maybe I rested my head on his shoulder, I don't know, but at some point it was clear that we had to acknowledge the depth of the connection we felt with one another and evaluate the direction our friendship was heading. I remember being terrified and thinking "this cannot happen"--our friendship had become so important to me, and I didn't have a great track record with relationships. I was terrified that if we started a relationship, I'd somehow screw it up, and I'd lose the friendship. But I knew I couldn't imagine my life without him in it.
The next day (or maybe it was a few days later), I met up with a close friend to tell her what was happening. I made a big production out of it, saying I was going to buy her coffee because it was the least I could do given the shocking news I was about to bombard her with. After I finished my fearful, excited rambling, she looked at me, unfazed, and said "Well that's obvious". When I asked her why she didn't tell me before, she said "We thought you knew!!!" The universe had given us the blind spot exactly where we needed it, for exactly as long as we needed it. When we were ready, we were able to see.
One night that first week, we went on what you might say was our "first date" - to 888, a Pan-Asian restaurant where we'd previously shared many laughs and good conversations over late night green curry with friends. Seriously, their green curry is so good there. I don't remember much of what we talked about, but I'll never forget the words he said as we were discussing how to approach the relationship going forward: "All I ask is your complete willingness to try".
The first few weeks, maybe months, of dating were a whirlwind of emotions as we adjusted to the new role we had in each other's lives. Due to logistical factors about our individual circumstances, we ended up moving in together earlier in our relationship than was probably reasonable, objectively speaking, if it's even reasonable to speak objectively about such things. But we maintained our "complete willingness to try," and we adapted fairly easily to sharing a living space.
Fast forward almost two years, a couple apartments, two new cars, several promotions at work for each of us, and a whole lot of growing together and strengthening our partnership. We started to talk about committing our lives to each other. Eventually he told me he had a plan to propose, and he gave me a one-word hint: "Oink". I puzzled over that for months, trying to get him to give me more clues, asking coworkers what they thought it meant.
Then, on December 30, 2016, we were getting ready to go out to dinner at Odd Duck. He'd made me believe it was my idea to go out to dinner to celebrate the New Year a day early, because I don't like to be out with all the crowds, and being on the roads late at night on drinking holidays makes me nervous. I remember I had mentioned to my boss as I was leaving work that day that Mike and I were going to dinner, and he asked if I expected a proposal. I think I said "No, I guarantee he won't ask me tonight!" Anyway, we got dressed and ready to go, and as I came downstairs, I might have made a comment on the dress I was wearing, or my coat, which I didn't think looked right with the dress. Mike said something like "I have just the thing to go with that" and went back upstairs to grab something. That's the moment I suspected what was about to happen. I remember looking at my reflection in the sliding door to our balcony and taking a deep breath. He came back downstairs, got down on one knee, and said "Katie, I have loved you since the turtles". I don't remember what was said after that, other than there was some squealing and some repeated questioning along the lines of "Is this really happening?!" When I got over the shock of the moment, he explained the hint - apparently December 30 is National Bacon Day!
In the year and a half since I said "Yes," Mike has continued to make me a better version of myself, one day at a time. We've been through a lot of life's ups and downs in the past few years, and through all the changes, the joyful parts and the challenges, we've begun to build a life together on the unshakeable foundation of a solid friendship. As Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote, "Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction". In that sense, Mike is my perfect teammate in this life.
I look forward to a lifetime of learning and endless adventures with you, babe!
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