full circle

Nineteen years ago today I put on a red-and-black skirt, picked out a pair of shiny, pretty earrings, brushed my hair, and walked out of my Brooklyn apartment to head into Manhattan to see a movie with a man I knew and liked. Yes, liked that way. He was cute and shy and he sometimes pulled on his ear when he talked, and he was thoughtful and perceptive and passionate about movies.

We met in front of the theater. It wasn't snowing. It had been the day before, when we stood outside after lunch just north of Times Square, stood outside while snowflakes melted on our hair, stood outside instead of saying goodbye and heading into our respective buildings and back to our respective jobs. But nineteen years ago tonight it wasn’t snowing. And nineteen years ago tonight we watched "Mosquito Coast" and ate dinner in a tiny Italian restaurant next door and talked, at first awkwardly and then more easily, and then we walked to his car – he'd driven in from the suburbs – and then sat in the car on a dead-end street overlooking the East River and the romantically industrialized Queens shoreline. And we kissed for the first time, and he drove me back to my little Park Slope apartment and he stayed. It was, after all, cold outside.

That was nineteen years ago today. And we're still together.

Someone asked me recently what Dan is like. I couldn't answer. Nineteen years ago I could have described him. He was defined in my mind, limned in relatively simple terms. But as time goes by, it's become impossible. Because he is not who he was then. I, too, am not who I was. We've grown with and because of each other. And although I know exactly who he is, I can't describe him to you. Oh, I can say he's tall, he has dark brown hair and light brown eyes and a long, lovely face, he likes techno-toys and is very attuned to music and defies masculine stereotypes: he cooks and cleans and doesn't watch sports on TV. I can say these things. Surface things. But I can't express who he is. Except that he's my spouse. The man I've chosen and who has chosen me.

That first New Year's Eve, when Dan made a toast to us raising a toast together the next New Year's, that felt daring. A whole year?

When four years passed and we were still together, that felt like a milestone. We'd outlasted my previous long-term relationship.

When thirteen years went by, that felt like a big one. We'd outlasted my parents' marriage.

Now I feel like we've stepped into another dimension. The dimension where people live who expect to stay together. Who have made a life.

We've moved across country together, not once, but twice. We got married, to my great surprise (I was not a fan of marriage, but so far so good). We're raising a child, a bright willful boy who is both of us and neither of us, who is himself in all his glory and frustration. We have worked hard together to help that child overcome his neurological deficits. We have taken turns supporting each other financially. We have bought a house, fixed it up together, true sweat equity, and then sold it. I expect we'll buy another one somewhere along the way, sooner rather than later. Another ring on the tree trunk. Another year gone by. Together.

I don’t know the secret to relationship longevity. I don't know how you know when you've found the right person, the person who eases your restlessness, the person you can trust with your heart. I only know that when you do, something inside you calms and says "yes."

And still, after nineteen years, says "yes."