Lucky Thirteen

Photos by Anastasia Abramova-Guendel and Federico Guendel

Ian and I started dating thirteen years ago today. For some reason, this story, like so many others, starts with my mom. I was a jaded, cynical teenager, already bored of everything life in my hometown had to offer and thus disinclined to do, or try, anything new. I needed encouragement – well, more like a firm push – to learn to drive, to go to parties, and especially to apply for part-time jobs. Often, mom’s encouragement came in the form of a simple phrase, uttered just as she was dropping me off somewhere new: “Maybe you’ll meet a cute boy here.” She said that to me as I was getting out of the car on my way to my first shift as a perfume sales girl at The Bay. I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes, because I was seventeen and that seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. But, somehow, invariably, she was always right. The meeting didn’t happen right away, of course. I remember the night it did because I was late for work. I clacked awkwardly up six escalators in an extremely impractical pair of mules, hoping to sneak into the regular evening meeting unnoticed. Clearly, I was delusional. There was nothing sneaky about my entrance – almost everyone looked up, and my manager gave me a withering glare as I found the only empty seat. But I noticed none of it, because there was someone new in the room, an unfamiliar boy with blonde hair and a kind of relaxed posture that I couldn’t manage even with effort. I was immediately intrigued. But it was 2003; there were barely cell phones, never mind social media. I had to wait for an opportunity to speak to this boy in person if I wanted to get to know him, and that opportunity didn’t come until five months later…! When I think back now, the pace at which I collected tidbits of information about the boy, whose named turned out to be Ian, from subtle questions in conversation with my colleagues and general observation, seems absolutely glacial, but it was normal – albeit totally frustrating; I wrote many angst-ridden journal entries about it, I recall – at the time. Our story isn’t a “meet cute.” Our first conversation was so utterly mundane that I don’t have the faintest idea what we talked about. What I do remember is that it was a quiet Sunday afternoon; there were no customers in sight, and so I listened while he started to approach my counter, then turned around, then started to approach again, four times at least before he finally came all the way over. It was another five months before he made the very eloquent proposal that I have come to learn is just his style: “So, do you want to do something… sometime next week?”

Our first date, a few days later, spanned five coffee shops over seven hours. My parents were less than thrilled when I came home at nearly three am. For years, we celebrated May first as our anniversary, but looking back, I remember it was actually May third – I know this because my dad’s birthday is May fourth, and the first thing he did on the morning of his birthday that year was give me an earful. I nodded along as obediently as I could, while pondering when I would see Ian next.

A little less than six years later, in the second last week of our first long stay in Paris, Ian asked me another, similarly simple question: “Do you want to marry me?” I wouldn’t be writing this if my answer hadn’t been yes. Today is the thirteenth anniversary of that first date that I spent almost a year waiting for, and while it wasn’t specifically my intention to have photos taken for the occasion, it did cross my mind that the only photos we’d had together since our wedding were selfies. Ian has been carrying a camera around everywhere he goes since long before we met; he is invariably the one behind the lens, capturing almost all of the photos that appear in this space, and that is his preference. Luckily, we have wonderful photographer friends here in Paris, Anastasia and Federico, who were willing to take some snaps of us under the cherry blossoms on Ile de la Cite before a double date. It’s relatively rare that I share anything this personal in this space, because not everyone in my life is as open to sharing everything about themselves with the entire world – but after thirteen years, and the advent of Snapchat/instagram stories, I think Ian has a pretty good idea of what he signed on for, and despite that, he’s still here. Happy anniversary, my darling. Here’s to the next thirteen years.