Five years ago today I got into my beaten old first car that I’d gotten as a present in high school from my parents so I wouldn’t have to rely on unreliable, random friends to get me to school in the morning and to work after school. There was no bus—not even a short bus—on this side of town to get me to my school on the east side. That day, the second of September, two-thousand-and-four, I nervously drove towards the school I had been attending for two years now.
But that Thursday I had already been to school and it was now evening. I had a first date—another first date. What I was certain would be only the next in a long chain of first dates. Like previous guys, I had met this one on MySpace (for those of you unfamiliar with this antiquated website, it was basically the Facebook of its time). My track record with dates from MySpace was not good. There had been the excruciatingly tall boy with no emotional awareness or social skills, the short boy with intimacy issues, and my favorite (actually not from MySpace—this one was a blind date): the boy who worked at Little Caesar’s and wore a tail. A furry, for those of you familiar with the frenzied obsession. That one ended in a yelling match between him and the friend who set me up with him.
But I was sure, from talking to this guy for a few weeks, that this date was going to go differently. And it turns out I was right. For one thing, I was very nervous. So nervous, in fact, that I had neglected to fill my car up with gas prior to the date, despite being below a quarter of a tank. Secondly, the guy trusted me to pick him up at his house. We had actually exchanged phone numbers and spoken over the phone before these arrangements were made. But it was nonetheless a bold and somewhat daring move.
We drove downtown. Truth be told I don’t remember much what we spoke of in the car. Formal introductions were undoubtedly exchanged. Of course, he already knew me from MySpace as Sean and I knew him as Andrew. I was certainly and understandably nervous, which probably made me either ramble incessantly or clam up and say almost nothing. You would have to ask Andrew, I honestly don’t recall.
I do know that what we attended was an improv performance at Off Broadway Theatre in Salt Lake City in which my best friend since 3rd grade, Mike, was performing (and of course, he did an excellent job). I decided to be classy and pay for parking downtown rather than hop on the train with my date. Again, due to my nervousness blackouts, I don’t remember much of the performance. Again, ask Andrew—he will also attest to my bad memory. What followed was what was truly memorable (and he would kill me if I forgot).
On the way back to the car, I managed to gracefully slide down a handrail and beat my date to a door and hold it open for him. I didn’t mention it at the time, but given my substandard sense of balance, it was a huge risk to take. I could have very easily tumbled off the railing and our date may have ended in a 911 call and a trip to the emergency room. And of course, Andrew would not have been allowed in my hospital room because gays are not allowed to visit each other in the hospital. Just kidding. If I were conscious, I would let him in. But I did not fall and our date did not come to an abrupt and bloody conclusion. Instead, Andrew graciously thanked me for my kindness and we got back in my car and started to drive back towards Midvale and to his house.
My negligence was about to pay off. In my new CD player played was a CD of a band we both apparently independently loved: Yellowcard (don’t groan, all you emo h8ers). I don’t know who began to sing first—Andrew or I, but by “Only One” we were harmonizing. At that point, I was like, “Okay, that’s it. We are made for each other and we’re getting married tomorrow.” I didn’t want to sound like I was coming on too strong though, so I kept this thought to myself. In my nervous musical and romantic bliss, I was still ignoring my gas gauge. At some point though, I must have looked down, though, and seen the ominous glowing orange fuel light. Only half-thinking, I exclaimed, “Oh no! I hope we don’t run out of gas!” and reached down and grabbed Andrew’s hand. “Hold my hand. I’m scared!” With the smoothness of velvet, Andrew accepted my hand and we drove all the way back to Midvale with interlaced fingers.
For those of you philistines who don’t know the art of driving a stick-shift, let me tell you that driving a stick, holding someone’s hand, and singing along to Ocean Avenue by Yellowcard is no easy combination of tasks. It takes impressive skill, which is no doubt what won Andrew over that night. To make a short story long, which I have successfully done, I did not get us stranded on the freeway and we made it back to civilization and filled up my car shortly before I dropped Andrew off at his parent’s house in Midvale and gave him a quick, nose-bumping kiss on the lips.
It did not take very many more dates before I knew that this was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. One night, shortly after Andrew met my parents, I escorted him out to his car so he could go home (it was a school night for me). I gave him a big kiss and told him, “I’m not afraid to say this anymore. I love you.” He expressed similar sentiments and then, reluctantly, after profuse hugging, drove himself home.
I will be the first to admit that our relationship has not been all smooth sailing. Like any cohabitating couple, we have had our share of disagreements and arguments. But every passionate fight we have only makes me more certain that we are meant to be together, because as angry as we have gotten with each other, we always come back together and work things out, because (as corny as it sounds) love can conquer almost anything.
Andrew has so many incredible qualities. He is dedicated to his job, forward-thinking, honest, committed, loyal, kind, fair and funny. He has a wonderful family that has accepted me into their large Mormon ranks with grace and love. He excels at his work and gets promotion after promotion. Someday, I swear to God, he is going to be the CEO of Marriott Hotels.
I have decided that “husband” is the only appropriate term for Andrew. I tire of referring to him as my “partner” and having people ask us what business we are in, or what we sell door-to-door. The truth is, Andrew is the love of my life—the one person I know I want to spend the rest of my life with. And despite what churches and cultural ceremonies and rings and political jurisdictions would all have you believe, it really doesn’t matter at all who else says we are married. Don’t get me wrong: we both want equal legal and linguistic recognition of our relationship and all the rights associated therewith—but when it comes right down to the issue of our bond, it is not created by a government or a church or a pair of rings or a piece of paper. I have felt the passionate, burning connection between us in my chest ever since that first date. And it only grew stronger every day, past the day I first said “I love you.” And I know he feels the same. Andrew is my husband. I can’t imagine the last five years without him by my side. Happy fifth anniversary, my love.
