I couldn't eat if I thought about him. I lost 10 pounds within the first 2 months of our relationship, and we lived six hours apart then. We stayed up way too late having many awkward, and a few not so awkward phone conversations. He sent me emails counting down the days until he could come visit me-October 2. My friend-who is no longer my friend-came over to my apartment before that first visit to straighten my hair. She walked in, took a paper bag from her backpack, and pulled out a bottle of Parrot Bay and a 2-liter of Coke. She looked at me and said You're going to need this. She fed me a rum and coke, made my hair look pretty, and sent me to meet another friend-who is still my friend, I hope-for dinner. She told me stories of her latest travels and watched me nervously pick apart a cheeseburger and drink three beers. She held my hair back as I vomited into a trashcan on 34th Street, not out of drunkenness, but due to nerves. I picked at my fingernails and paced around Penn Station, wondering if I looked okay, wondering if I smelled like beer and throw-up, wondering if he'd even recognize me or if I'd recognize him, and what would I say.
In autumn, I remember all of this. I can still feel the newness, the anticipation of when will he call me, when will he email me, when will we see each other again.
That autumn, five years ago, was the first time anyone had ever said the L word to me-and meant it. I knew very quickly, that I L-ed him, but I questioned whether or not I'd be able to say it back, if he ever said it to me. My friends-who I wish were still my friends-teased me about being in L with him. I claimed I wasn't sure if I was or not. They insisted I was.
In crispy autumn, I remember listening to Vienna Teng repeatedly finding meaning for us in all of her songs, especially "Eric's Song," especially in the line about "reasons for defying reason." There was no logical reason for us to get together, to stay together, but we did.
When the air tastes like October, I remember walking, hands clutching hands, down the streets of New York City to some restaurant or another where I would hardly be able to eat anything because my stomach just wouldn't settle itself. And I remember him telling me, two months into the relationship, that he wanted to marry me. The first time I came to see him, under the guise of seeing my relatives-who I no longer consider my family-I remember picking at a roasted half chicken and smashed potatoes at Bizou and mumbling, um, I guess so, when he asked if he could come to Hatteras Island with me for Thanksgiving. It was the best Thanksgiving of my life so far.
I walked around the City both alone, and occasionally with him, feeling grateful all the time. Things change in five years. The newness is gone, and I miss it. We have settled into our lives together, and I feel thankful for that. Sometimes I miss feeling like the most wonderful, amazing, exciting person on earth, but I think the trade off for losing the excitement of the new is getting to live together and be married and be a family. I am lucky to have someone to talk to before I fall asleep. We've changed, both of us, and I've gotten fat, and more insecure and anxious and have become less happy than I was five years ago, but I have ultimately gained so much more than I lost. In the last five years, I've lost several friends who I loved dearly, I've lost the place that I loved more than anywhere else in the world, I've lost much of what was lovely about myself. I think that's pretty normal as things change. I wouldn't trade any of it.
Every autumn, I remember how it felt; I can still feel exactly how it felt.
Us, five years later, and if anyone ever says anything to me about anything I have written here, I will stop being your friend. Seriously. I'm done being a girl now.
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