Six Months

Six months ago it was December and cold in Austin. People thought Newt Gingrich had a shot at being president, I hadn't heard of Jeremy Lin—nobody had—and Whitney Houston and Joe Paterno were still alive. 


Things were different then, which is no surprise; time passes, things change, and that's how it is and always will be. Even though change is one of the few certainties of life (unless you're an accountant or an actuary), occasionally all of this change hits you at once and you sit somewhere quiet and look back at what was and then think about your life now and in that quiet place you remember all the little moments between what was then and what is now and you don't really have any words, you just have a few gaps that you still can't fill in. 


I'm talking about myself, as most writers tend to, and I'm being vague, which most writers tend to be. How about instead, I tell you what I mean?


Six months ago Austin was cold and I was working in a bar and among all the other things that had not happened yet, I hadn't told Kristin that I liked her. That would change on December 9th, when I let Kristin know how I felt over a text message. In my defense, Kristin was studying for final exams and I would have had to wait some time before I could have told her in person—I have never been fond of waiting. I needed to clear this up because telling a girl you like her over a text message is something I did in eighth grade, when I had size ten feet and would still stand next to Mom and see if I was taller than her or not. 


On December 9th, I told Kristin—after some prodding, mind you—I liked her. I remember being nervous as I waited for her to text me back and I remember feeling lame about how nervously I was waiting for a text, but she told me she felt the same way and we decided it would be a good idea for two people who liked each other to start dating. Since that day—and the days before, when I was getting to know Kristin well enough to know I liked her—my life has been better. 


Kristin and I have been to DC (twice) and walked along a beach in Florida. We have driven across the country together, stopping at a great microbrewery in Knoxville. The day before we had a picnic lunch in Virginia in the back of my truck. Singapore is next. 


Early on, there were nights where we stayed up until eight in the morning talking because there was so much to say. Other nights were more routine, with a nice dinner and a glass of wine and we were in bed by ten, laughing at how old we are for such a young couple. We have gone for late night drives and  other nights we sat in my room late and listened to the rain when it was so dark you couldn't even see the ceiling. When it was February and still cold, Kristin would bundle up and come in to the bar and stay until I was done cleaning at 4am, just sitting and smiling and talking, and then I'd walk her to her car and give her a hug and we'd drive to a 24-hour cafe and we'd talk some more and warm up over some food. 


These are some of the little moments I spoke of earlier, the ones that bridge then and now, or try to at least. But at best this bridge is like the one Indiana Jones seems to walk across in every movie—noticeably incomplete, with planks missing. It is a poor bridge, I am saying.


Why am I talking about Indiana Jones?


In ninety minutes Kristin and I will have been dating for six months. I do not know what that means, though I know holding a job for six months doesn't look impressive on a resume, which doesn't really mean anything for Kristin and me and what we are building, though it does provide a sort of worthless perspective that is still perspective nonetheless. I also know that everyone who has lasted longer than six months has hit the six month mark and thought about how short six months can feel.  


I'm being vague again. 


I wanted to say these months have been wonderful in ways I could not have pictured or dreamed of six months prior. I do not know where we will be in six more months, or even in one month. I can not promise Kristin will still laugh at my jokes, though I think she will. I can just think about then and now and be grateful it all happened the way it did; I still get to hold her hand; tomorrow will be six months, and we will have a simple dinner and probably be in bed before ten.