Throughout my life, I’ve had periods when I thought about getting married and having babies. When I was a kid, I played a game when you named the girls who would be your bridesmaids along with the color of their dresses. When I was in my early twenties, I decided I wanted to have five kids. But the wedding and the babies never went further than fantasy and game play. I had a wonderful relationship in my twenties that just never moved toward marriage. And I had a wonderful time in my thirties being a solo traveler, cultivating amazing friendships, finding success as a writer and… moving to Paris.
Then a couple years ago, less than a year after returning to New York, I met Andrew. I won’t say it was a lightening bolt and I knew right away. But I will say there were enough auspicious moments and signs early on to know he and “it” was the real deal. It was a slow, steady, intriguing relationship that both challenged and comforted me. There was chemistry and camaraderie, respect and appreciation, we had fun together and learned from one another. He’s kind, patient, thoughtful, fun, sweet, surprising and sexy. He’s as game to go karaoke as he is to watch the Red Sox as he is to hang out with my family. We’ve been to Paris and Buenos Aires, Kansas City and Connecticut. We’ve eaten lobster rolls, almond croissants and carrot tartare. We’ve clocked about a million miles, walking around New York and Brooklyn, many of those miles on the hunt for a new apartment, which—finally!—we’ll move into together by month’s end. And last weekend, as we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, Andrew proposed.
Aside from those childhood daydreams, I’ve never been big into weddings. I’m not that girly-girl, big dress dreaming type. But I’m thrilled to be engaged. At 40. To Andrew. There’s nothing better than having waited for the right time, for the right guy. For waiting for your moment. For waiting for love.
I love you, Andrew.