In 1999, I lived on the 10th floor of a building in the financial district of New York City. My fifth floor neighbor, Mary Ann, caught me in the elevator and invited me to her birthday party in late December. 

I showed up with my roommates a few hours too early, so we sat at her kitchen counter, close to the food. We snacked on samosas and drank wine until the party really started to get going. By 11:30 her loft was wall-to-wall with dancers. They shook their heads and tails, arms flailing, while shouting along to hits from the 80’s.

Around midnight, a guy walked in wearing a bright orange and magenta-striped wool sweater. I almost dropped the drink I was holding. The woman I was talking to noticed what I was noticing and said, “I know him!” She called him over and introduced us. He was a glassblower by day; artist, musician, and sculptor all other times. 

This is what I loved about New York. The people I met were interesting, multi-hyphenate, creative, and free. I wanted to know more about this orange-sweatered guy, but played it cool. I never gave out my phone number. A year later we eloped at City Hall. 

We just celebrated our 22-year wedding anniversary.