We met at a crowded media party in the East Village. It was autumn of 2009. Lindsay (5’3”) was a saucy publicist for Time Out New York magazine, and Blakeley (6’4”) was a witty video editor at Gawker.
We went on our first date a month later. A snowstorm had cancelled Blakeley’s flight to California, so we met at Shoolbred’s for a drink. Lindsay realized he had never tasted scotch, and proceeded to order a round of Macallan 12.
Six months later, we moved in together on the Upper West Side. Two years later, we adopted our beloved rescue mutt, Bagel.
We have traveled across the world together, navigating our way through the South of France, mapping a tasting tour of the Amalfi coast, getting lost in rural Portugal, and nearly marrying in Aruba.
We stayed in love in our Upper West Side apartment for the next four and a half years — and lord knows how many jobs. Lindsay waited patiently until she wasn't. Her friends wouldn't exactly consider her a patient person.
Finally, four an a half years after our first date, Richard hosted a dinner party. He staged the scene in a loft with forty of our favorite friends, plenty of wine, dozens of burgers, a playlist of her favorite 90s alternative rock tracks, and six bottles of Macallan 12. The scotch was a dead give-away.
He gave a beautiful speech, dropped on a knee, and asked Lindsay to spend the rest of her life with him. Well, you know what happened next.
See you in September.
