Before we moved in together last May, my fiance and I dated long-distance for almost three years. Our every-other-week commute (we took turns):
According to American Airlines, the flight between O'Hare and LAX (or SNA; we switched between the airports depending on the fare) is approximately four hours and 29 minutes. Factor in (for me) a 45-60 minute Blue Line ride to O'Hare on a Friday afternoon, and for my fiance, about the same amount of time racing up (or down) the 405 to get to the airport, plus parking the car and shuttle ride to the terminal. Add to that the less-than-stellar on-time rate for airlines, particularly for Friday night flights. And should there be any inclement weather, all bets were off.
The fiance had to go back to Southern California this week for a work trip. As soon as he landed, he sent me a text message: "How the f did we do this for all those years?"
I don't know how, but I know why. I know why we appreciate being able to have dinner together any night of the week now-- not just on Saturdays, or the fact that Sundays are no longer abbreviated by a return trip to the airport.
I know exactly why we made those mad dashes to the airport, suffered in middle seats next to a crying baby/someone who really needed two seats/in front of a seat-kicker, delayed/diverted flights and compressed weekends where we fit two weeks of togetherness into about 40 hours.
That's devotion, baby.
The Atelier, a Boudoir studio in Chicago
1 week ago