Today, Coffee and I went out for sushi to celebrate our 11th date-a-versary (which was actually February 20th, but I had to work a very, very long day so wasn’t really celebratory.)
Contrary to the name, it’s not the celebration of our first date. On February 20th, 11 years ago, I confessed to Coffee that I was love with him – him, my friend. I was 26 years old, (unhappily) married to someone else, had just experienced my father’s death, was trying to figure out so many things – - but I was positive, completely, that I was in love.
Confessing this to him was more than just risking a potentially awkward conversation. There was so much to potentially lose by telling him this, so much possible upheaval, and the biggest worry was that I was risking the possibility that he’d be uncomfortable enough to actually move back to the US. At that point in time, he was living in my house and we were friends – and he didn’t really know anyone else very well.
I would have lost my best friend and messed things up for him in the process.
Obviously, that’s not how it all went down. He didn’t freak out, it wasn’t awkward, and we’re now coming up on our 8th wedding anniversary.
Over the past 11 years, we’ve been through all sorts of adventures and misadventures together. He is my favouritest person in the world – still my very best friend. I often feel like we’ve known each other forever, with all the inside-jokes and hilarious memories and shared stories that come with a long relationship.
There are many ways in which I have been lucky in this life – the biggest, though, was that he loved me back.