A year ago today I was feeling distinctly nauseated. The part where I was getting over a ridiculous stomach virus did not help matters one iota, but mostly I was nauseated because today was the day we were going to have our first date. And I already knew I was doomed.
We'd been talking via email for exactly two weeks, and you were funny, and you had the excellent diction, and I'm sorry that that makes me not at all cool, but nothing gets me like good diction in a man. You asked me questions about myself, and you told self-deprecating stories about YOURself, and you had a cat and you read a lot and oh, I was so screwed.
When I finally met you, I think I stayed nervous for eight seconds. We started talking and never stopped. You were polite and kind and interesting and you walked me to my car and asked me out for a second date right then and there.
We didn't plunge into heavy dating right away.
This was not my idea.
You're a lot more careful and methodical than I am, which I think is good because if there were two of us with personalities like mine, we'd both have quit our jobs, moved into a hovel and just made out this entire past year.
It took you longer to plunge into this relationship than it did me, and it tested my patience and my will and my maturity, which let's face it are not that high up on my list of strong suits. I remember early on talking about maturity, or my lack thereof, and you said, "You realize this is it. This is as mature as we get. I mean, when we turn 50 we don't turn into British bankers." But I HAVE matured this year, because I was in love with you as early as March, and I had to SIT here like a GROWNUP and wait for you to catch up, because I knew you were worth it.
(There was one night in March that we were emailing back and forth. I had told you that people on my blog had started asking about you, because I referred to you from time to time as a "...friend" and everyone who read me knew I was so full of crap with this "...friend" bidness. "They're asking about you and I'm not ready and it's making me tense," I emailed.
You didn't seem to react to that at all.
"How can you know that people are asking about you on my blog and you aren't STAMPEDING to see what they're saying?" I asked.
"Would Steve McQueen care what was said about him on some Internet blog?" asked Ned. "He would not."
And there, right there in my living room, looking at my stupid iPhone email, I said to no one except Edsel, "Oh crap. I love him." And I did. And I still do.)
(Also, Edsel told me he had TOTALLY SEEN IT COMING with the Ned love.)
I love that you don't care what's said about you on an Internet blog. I love that you don't care that I DO care what's said about me on an Internet blog. I love that every story you tell is hilarious, and that when I tell you about something bad that's happening to one of my friends, who you've never met, you really feel bad and ask me about them later.
I love how much you adore that ridiculous cat of yours. I love that you call adult people "ma'am" and "sir." I love that you open doors for me and worry about me walking in the rain. I love that you cooked for me the day I had surgery and you burned everything because we were too busy talking to notice the food.
I love that you're good to your mother. And that you make your bed. And that you eat salads. I love that you quit smoking and that you did it by reading David Sedaris. I love your house filled with books and that you don't have a St. Pauli Girl mirror anywhere in your place, but that you DO have a Manhattan poster.
I love how you are the best kisser ever. And that it takes you six weeks to look at a menu.
So thank you, Ned, for being you. I wouldn't want you any other way. Thank you for such a happy year. And for putting up with me splaying this note all over my blog. I go around every day feeling all butterfly-y and giddy and twinkly and gross and still a little sick, to tell you the truth.
Thank you for making me nauseated, Ned. You're my favorite kind of virus.