I first met Steve 20 years ago this fall. He was a Jeep-driving, motorcycle-riding, environmental reporter who sat on the other side of my newsroom cubicle wall and made me laugh like crazy. About a year later, we started dating. And a week after that, he moved away to cover the presidential primaries as a low-rent blogger before “blogger” was even a word. I liked him so much that I lent him my laptop. There was a lot of uncertainty then. And I’m not just talking about the “what the hell are you doing driving around the country following the presidential primaries” part. We were young, poor, interested in everything under the sun. We didn’t know what we wanted but we knew we liked each other. Since that time, we have seen three new presidents sworn into office. We’ve witnessed the start of two American wars and the “end” of one. We broke up and got back together, hopscotched across four states, got married, had two babies, bought a house and cycled through about seven (?) cars between us. We’ve navigated job changes and professional challenges, highs and lows. We’ve taken vacations and worked too much to take vacations. We’ve landed in this spot where our lives now are a blur of work and kids and too little sleep and the ongoing agony/delight that goes with living in my hometown. But here’s the thing: In those nearly two decades, Steve has never stopped being my favorite person to spend time with. He’s still my guy. I didn’t know back then that he would be a foot-rubbing birthing partner, a committed nightly dishwasher, a rigorous editor, a sweet father. I just knew I liked time spent with him. Happy birthday to my fella. Thanks for making me laugh for 20 years and thanks for making me proud out there in this nutso world.
