Six years ago, I followed my heart to San Francisco. I had just graduated with an almost useless degree and spent the summer devouring Kurt Vonnegut and Sylvia Plath. I celebrated cherished friendships with all kinds of alcohol and late night ramblings. It was a Kerouacian summer. Then a few (of my very best) friends helped me move out to the City of Lights. It was just me and a couple of duffle bags. I had left a couple boxes of books with friends because I couldn’t take it with me. I didn’t have a job or much of a plan. I had a couch to sleep on and a whole beautiful city to drink in.

            Within a month I had an extremely stressful job at a grocery store pharmacy. I felt lucky to get it. It was decent money and I could get there by bus. The 27 bus to be exact.

            I loved San Francisco. I listened to the Postal Service and The Good Life on a loop. I got lost. I found things. I got more lost. I found myself. I got even more lost. But I always felt right at home.

            It was after work one afternoon in late September (I had been fighting off a cold and just wanted to get home) that I climbed on that 27 bus and saw him.

            He was beautiful. Sparkling blue eyes and a nicely shaped bald head. He reminded me of Lex Luther from Smallville. There was a prime empty seat right behind him. I figured I’d sit there and look at the back of his head. To my surprise, the handsome stranger started talking to me. “I like your shirt,” he said.

            I was wearing my Fraggle Rock t-shirt so I knew that he was at least a stalker with good taste. I saw that he had been writing something on a yellow notepad. Ah, a literary sort. We chatted for the entire trip until he had to get off. David gave me his email address (two of them), his website, and an assortment of other contact info so we could hang out some time.

            I was sure he was gay.

            The last guy that acted interested in me definitely was.

            I was in San Francisco, wasn’t I?

            After communicating via email a couple of times, I agreed to a sort of date. A chaperoned date. In fact, I had 1 or 2 best friends with us on our first two dates. I mean, I was a small town, Midwestern girl in the big city. I had to be careful.

I was hesitant about getting into a serious relationship. David (he’s Italian; have I mentioned that before?) on the other hand was relentless in his pursuit, but also understanding and patient. He waited for me to be ready.

            We’ve been together for six years as of the end of September.

            David still says that he knew when we first met that we were meant to be together. But I had been skeptical.  

            Now after all this time, I think that the gods must have been smiling down on me that day on the 27 bus.

(me, with blond hair...I know, I know, what was I thinking?)

In celebration of this day, I’m come up with a few reasons of why I adore my husband.

~He has beautiful, expressive eyes. I know exactly what he’s feeling when I look into those eyes.

~He never gives up. Ever. He just works harder and harder. He has the highest standard for himself.

~He never forgets to put the seat down on the toilet. ;)

~He’s strong. Emotionally and physically. He practically moved us in to our Chicago apartment all by himself.

~He never says no to helping someone. Even if he doesn’t want to help or if it’s quite inconvenient, he always helps. There aren’t too many people that are like that.

~He sacrifices for me. Freely. I don’t ask him to do it. He puts me first. (And I put him first. So it’s kinda funny to watch.)

~He’s an avid reader. There’s a stack of six books next to his side of the bed. He’s reading all of them at the same time.

~He doesn’t let fear hold him back. He’s willing to take risks.

~He’s my best friend.

~He gets me and that’s just plain amazing. Nuff said.