Adoration: Part 2

When I was young, I imagined him to be like my father. Tall, dark hair, funny, loving and kind.

In highschool, I had my fair share of boyfriends (though I use the term loosely because nowadays the stuff that kids do together is so much more, umm, sophisticated than what happened then). Two of them were my first serious crushes.

At college, I fell madly in love. Or, what I thought was love at that very young age. But whatever it was, it affected me pretty badly. Both in good ways and in destructive ways.

I moved to New York City when I was 22, to live the life of a singer/actress/waitress and then subsequently fashion journalist. I met and dated lots of men/boys along the way, most of them were good guys, but didn't tick all the boxes. I still had an idea in my head of what I wanted, and preferably, I wanted him to be British. Why? No idea. I just felt like I was destined to live there. Somehow. A small part was probably this thing I had for Colin Firth/Christian Bale, and I thought the perfect guy would have everything that I had wanted when I was a young girl, plus live in a country that I had always dreamed about. That was my perfect, and my friends always made fun of me for being so picky.

I met a guy. We had a long relationship. He was a good guy. Did he do "it" for me? Not entirely. But I got married because, well, that's what you do when you're with someone for 4 years, right?

Mistake. We both knew it.

Luckily, after a year of torturing ourselves in the marriage, we both recognised that we needed to split. And though it felt pretty bleak at the time, it made me who I am today. It happened for a reason. It placed me in a perfect spot on that evening in June, 2005, when I went out to a work dinner for my new job.

I met him. Him. He was it. I knew it. Very tall, achingly handsome, funny (and, yes, British)...and I felt like I knew him from somewhere, oddly. Really knew him. I shook his hand, and the rest of the evening became a blur of smiles, conversations, drinks and what ifs...

3 months later, we talked about marriage.

8 months later, he proposed.

10 months later, we were married.

Not a day goes by where I don't get butterflies when I see him walk down the street to greet me, with that cat-like, long stride of his. He still kisses me the same way, after almost 6 years together, like he did when we were dating. I love the way he looks at me from across the room, head cocked to the side, like he's trying to memorize that star-like freckle on my cheek. He still places his hand on exactly that spot on my lower back that he knows will make me blush.

I took this picture the other day, and through the tears filling my eyes, I was radiating with so much happiness over what our love story created.

I found him.

And through him, I found her.