Okay. Enough. Enough of me thinking of all the things that could (and probably will) go bad after Poor Kyle and I get married. You know? People, they get married all the time. Sure, men can be forgetful and women can be nags. I, of all people, should know that very well. But those are things that simply are not important. What’s important are the sacrifices people make for one another. That’s how I know Kyle kind of likes me–the things he does to help me out, at no personal gain to himself. Like the time he drove straight down from Canada in 19 1/2 hours in March, to be by my side at my grandpa’s funeral. Or waiting many extra months to marry me so I could run off to Europe and experience before we got all poor and married. He could have very easily found a nice sweet Canadian girl–fresh out of high school–to fill the void. Or when he gives up his hoodie for me to wear when I am unprepared for those (sometimes unexpectedly) frigid days.
And he ought to know I kind of like him, too. Ever since Junior High, my plans were to graduate from Westwood, get a degree in something fancy, and move to Manhattan as a highly successful 23 year-old single yuppy in a greystone apartment on 5th avenue. (You think I’m joking, but that really was my plan. Oh no, I didn’t care what my career was, just as long as the means justified the Big Apple end.) My minimum marriage age was 25. Minimum. I tell him sometimes that I love him 4 years in New York.