seven.

Tomorrow, Casey and I will celebrate our seventh anniversary.

Mama mocks the idea of a dating anniversary. I suppose it's not as legitimate as a wedding anniversary, but it's the only thing us unmarried but not uninvolved people have. It was especially important in high school. We counted the months then, sometimes the weeks. We didn't have the kind of permanence and official status of a married couple, but we longed for it. Getting past that first year was a big deal, and so few people made it. The two year club was even more elite, and I only know of one couple in my high school that ever made it to three besides us.

We stopped counting the months a long time ago. Too much trouble, and as weeks become more insignificant as they turn into months, months do the same as they turn into years. Now, we pretty much go by half-years, like little kids telling their age. We only do that for the occasions that people ask how long we've been together. Eventually, we'll give that up, too. Casey has already taken to answering with "Too long."

Seven years is a third of my life. That fact strikes me as vaguely ridiculous, and people never cease to be amazed by it. Some are in awe, since a lot of them are yet to make it to that one-year milestone. Some people actually pity us. Not because they find Casey or I particularly repulsive, but because we're young and "tied down." Our age is a time to be free and wild. Neither of us has ever had a relationship other than the one we're in; we were each other's first kiss. And some people find that sad that we missed out on the experience of being with different people. It's true that both of us have wondered what it would be like if the hand we held was not the one we were used to. But relationships are not like ice cream in that you can go back to chocolate after you've had vanilla. And since chocolate makes us happy, neither of us feel the need to look around at the other flavors. Besides, I don't think I would be all that free and wild anyway.

I worry about us getting stale, about me looking at him and seeing him like he's just Casey, and not the way I saw him when I first did. And truthfully, we go through periods where that's probably true. I will probably never see him exactly the same way I did when I was fourteen, because I'll never be fourteen again. And thank goodness. But the way I look at him when I'm twenty-one is not a look of boredom. He can still make me laugh when I pretend to be mad, he still knows how to be romantic, he still makes me check him out approvingly when he's walking away or towards me.

I think we romanticize the new-romance tingles. Yeah, they were nice, and they were exciting, but they were nervous and uncomfortable. And if I were ever to find myself in a situation where I had to start all over again in the game, I would find that it was kind of a nice change, but that being settled and comfortable with someone was where I belonged. It's probably true that a lot of people don't belong in those kinds of relationships, and more power to them, but I'm glad that I'm not one of them.

We went out to eat last night and spent too much money. We are far beyond the stage of going out to nice restaurants, and we almost always go dutch on the check, the exceptions being when one is feeling particularly generous or perhaps to make up for being a half hour late for something. On occasions like last night, he usually pays a little more, which I never mind. I even drank sweet tea instead of water, which is free, a true indication of a special occasion. We even got all dressed up, and I couldn't help but keep my eye on his retreating figure in his shirt and tie when he got up to use the restroom and think about how good-looking my boyfriend is.

We talked about school, about work, about whatever, and held hands across the table while playing footsie under it. It's nice that we can still have a conversation about the little things that happen day-by-day, that we still flirt with the one we've already caught, and that this level of affection is not something we reserve for special occasions like tonight. We were alternately silly and serious, transitioning from one easily to another.

The food was good, and we shared by transferring food from one plate to another. He had some of my broccoli, because he didn't get any on his plate, and my chicken, pieces I cut especially for him since he doesn't like the end pieces. I had some of his steak, mostly the pieces he cut off before he sent it back for being too rare and just the way I like it, and all of his zucchini and carrots because he can tolerate only broccoli. He did not have any of my mashed potatoes, of which I am glad because I wanted them all, but I did offer. There was squash left on both plates when we left.

We didn't have dessert, but not because it was too expensive. In fact, we went somewhere where it was even more expensive, which also happened to be the place where we both work. We had specialty coffee drinks and individual creme brulees. I don't think either of us wanted to share one, and we justified the extra expense with our employee discount.

The girl who was hosting, our coworker whom we both like very much, asked if it was a special occasion. We told her it was our anniversary, and before she could even ask how long Casey and Sandra had been a unit, Casey told her, which I found unusual and kinda cute. Even when people ask, he generally just gives his token reply of "Too long." But last night he seemed proud that he was a part of something that had started out with two kids shyly and awkwardly flirting and then turned out to be something pretty great.