On the 7th of August 1998, my life was changed irrevocably.
A Note: This piece contains content relating to disordered eating and mental illness.
Bundled up in an over-sized, over-fluffed dressing gown, Shan smirks slightly as she says to me, “I’ll tell you a story.” And, wrapping both arms about my legs, I settle in: I’ve learned that a story from Shanna White is a story worth listening to.
I sat at my desk, coffee by my elbow. As Nathan - my esteemed boss - muttered away to himself about case deliveries and canning costs, I wracked my brain for dinner recipe ideas. I had promised to cook: everyone at home was (somehow) busier than I, and in all honesty cooking has become somewhat of a hobby for me, as opposed to a chore.
On January 22, the seemingly-unthinkable happened: my partner of two-and-a-half years asked me to marry him. Apparently, he's come to the silly conclusion that, despite my daily ridiculousness, he loves me enough to hang around for the next four-to-five decades. His loss? Who can say, but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the proverbial mouth.