This, the sixty-fourth move since 1985, happened on account of the most unfathomable event of all:
I got married.
So this story is the story of how I met my husband.
KIDDING, I promise this won’t take nine years.
It was a typical February 13. By “typical”, I mean I was single, and up to day six of a ten-day sulk about Valentine’s Day (I start approximately one week before, so that by the time the big day actually hits I have really hit my straps, sulk-wise). I was in a foul mood, and I told Twitter so.
This day is INTERMINABLE. Send nudes.
— Wile E. Minogue (@chrisopotamia) February 13, 2017
Okay, I was in a foul and thirsty mood. Don’t look at me like that, you’ve been there too. And besides, it worked. Twitter is a filthy place.
Well, it didn’t work completely. Out of the tidal wave of butts and wangs flooding my DMs, there was one stubborn hold-out.
quid pro quo, Clarice.
— Will (@willdogs) February 13, 2017
That’s right, this love story begins with a quote from Silence of the Lambs in reply to a request for nudes on Twitter. You know, the classic tale.
We tweeted back and forth sassily for a while, and then started messaging each other more sincerely.
Will is originally from Massachusetts, but at the time was living in Dallas. Two weeks after that auspicious Valentine’s Day Eve, he came to New York for the weekend and we had a 72 hour date. It was half fling, half experiment—would this even work? Can we even hold a conversation in person? What if he doesn’t like salt & vinegar chips, or thinks Ross was the best Friend, or refers to Kylie Minogue as “British”? What if we hate each other?—But by hour 44 we had very much bonded. For the record: he loves salt & vinegar, his favourite is Phoebe, and he’s been a fan of Kylie since 2001 . That last one was enough to cement it for me: we decided to date for real, even if it meant long distance.
Every two weeks I would fly to Dallas, or he would fly to New York. Of all the ways I saw my moving to the U.S. playing out, making regular trips to Texas was not a plot twist I predicted.
While I actually quite like Dallas (there’s always a margarita within arms reach and it’s impossible to be sad in those circumstances—even the place that did my pedicure gave me one), it did remind me too much of rural Queensland to ever feel truly comfortable there. And before any more local newspapers come after me demanding I explain myself, drumming up fury from the locals: I am speaking only for me personally, not slighting the place itself or any of its residents. There, we cool? Anyway, my point is Texas is very much like Queensland, except there are way more margaritas, and guns instead of cane toads.
Luckily, there was no real debate about where we would live if we ever wanted to end our period of dating long-distance. Will’s family are all in Massachusetts, and moving closer to the north-east was always on the cards for him.
And guess what city is located in the north east? (HINT: It’s a big one that people sing about incessantly and also the one I live in.)
So in September last year we moved into an apartment in Hamilton Heights (hence the above gif), and in November we tied the knot.
So it turns out this long, arduous, 30+ year story does have a happy ending after all.
Well, I mean, not an ending as such. Old habits die hard, and 64 is such an awkward number. I’m already thinking about what we could do if we had an apartment with a second bedroom…