The chronology of the journey Shar and I have taken together so far is a strange one. I was born on February 29, 1984—less than twenty-four hours later, she copied me, on March 1st, 1984. Fifteen interminable years intercede. We met in tenth grade, at Poly—it took me three years (and three unsuccessful attempts) to trick her into going out with me, in the Summer after we graduated. Over a month lapsed between when I asked her to be my lady and when she said yes—talk about interminable.

Since the first day she came over in that shocking capacity, August 24, 2002, seven years have passed. That's 364 weeks, 2,550 days, 61,152 hours, and 3,669,120 minutes—though it seems sometimes like it's been about ten seconds. Six of my family members have passed away since then. I've attained one college degree, one College Experience, and dropped out of grad school once. I made the round trip from Long Beach to UCLA hundreds and hundreds of times. There is a hole in the ozone layer with our names scratched into it like a weathered tree trunk. I wrote three books. I've been blessed to attend dozens of her shows, gigs, and even a few concerts.

We've been to 45 states together, three countries, and slept in the same bed in two dorm rooms, three apartments, and one of our mothers' homes. We have had 26 fights, and have made up significantly more often than that. I proposed to her once and she said yes once. We got married, on August 31, 2007. If you are reading this, there is a decent chance that you were there.

I've had six jobs since we started going out—Shar has had five. We have read all of each other's favorite books, and seen nearly all of each other's favorite movies. I do not know how many times we've gone out for dinner, or how many books we've bought—this is probably for the best. We have been in four car accidents between us. I have gotten two speeding tickets. She has gotten one ticket. We have Disneyland Annual Passports.

Before we started going out, I wanted to write for a living. Now, I do. Before we started to go out, Shar told me she didn't know what she wanted to do—she still doesn't, but she says she wants to do it with me, which on most days is probably more work than it should be anyway.

I taught her how to drive, and how to enjoy football, and she taught me how to love new kinds of music, and that religious prejudices I'd been carrying for a decade weren't any less prejudices than any other prejudice a person could carry inside of them.

At one point or another, I've regretted or second-guessed just about everything I've ever done in my life. I've never regretted asking her a fourth time, I've never regretting driving to LA so many times at the expense of so much else, I've never regretted a single minute I spent with her. It's been seven years. I'm still not itchy.

Labels: Generalness, shar