And we talked about how when we first started dating we were 22 and 27, living in a falling down house on Lyon Street, battling the mushrooms growing out of the walls and sleeping on a mattress on the floor. It was a really odd and bright time, one that involved late nights and long brunches and early mornings going to shitty jobs. I was learning to cook. Mike was finishing his thesis. We sat on the stoop most nights with our roommate and talked to the neighbors. I borrowed a dress for our first date out – months after we were actually together – and he wore a bolo tie. Then I moved east, and moved back, and we lost grandmas, and changed apartments, and had some good fights, and spent as much time together as humanly possible. And all we can say is more more more.
This past weekend Mike and I celebrated 7 years together. When I say celebrated, I mean that we just did what we like to do, but more of it. We slept in late. We walked the hills in our neighborhood and enjoyed the views. We saw friends. On Sunday we took a wilderness survival skills class, because who does not get romantic while learning to make fire from sticks and building a debris hut.