Eleven-and-a-half years ago (give or take a few weeks), I was in my mid-thirties, living it up in London. I was the sole tenant of a drafty 2-bedroom basement flat in Chelsea, and spending my weekends walking up and down the King's Road, visiting shops and cafés in the heart of my neighbourhood, if and when I finally deigned to get out of bed. Otherwise, I was traveling all over the world -- Dubai, Nigeria, China, the Netherlands, the Canary Islands, Greece -- and those were just in the first few months of my stint in the UK. It was what I wanted.
Eleven-and-a-half years ago (give or take a few weeks), I was sometimes single ... and sometimes not. It depended on my mood. But I certainly wasn't tied to anyone in any way, thankyouverymuch. Eleven-and-a-half years ago (give or take a few weeks), I had no desire to be anybody's girlfriend, far less wife -- I was young and having fun, and was planning on keeping it that way as long as possible. It was what I wanted.
Eleven-and-a-half years ago (give or take a few weeks), I met Marcus. Eleven-and-a-half years ago, we went on our first date. Eighteen days after that, he changed my mind about every single one of my plans.
Eleven years ago (to the day), we made it official, in a small-but-exceedingly-lovely hotel on the Strand, in front of a tiny group of friends and an administrator from The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea.
And in the eleven years since, I've never been so happy to have been wrong about what I thought I wanted.
Here's to the best laid plans of mice and me, and the joyous fact that they sometimes do go awry.