If you’re reading this, I can only assume you’re a wedding crasher. Everyone we’ve invited knows our origin story, so you’re obviously looking for information to integrate yourself into the party. Score some cake. Score some ass. Score some points (there’s a basketball court at the venue). I know how it goes.

You were hoping to get intel from our meet-cute story to use on our wedding day. 

During the ceremony, pretending to cry, you were going to lean over to my cousin and whisper: “I can’t believe they met in the Spring of 2019 in Boston!”

You were going to write in our guest book in huge calligraphy: “It’s wild that Sarah’s boss suggested she take improv classes at the same theater where Joe worked and performed!”

You imagined your would-be-Owen-Wilson-ass on the dance floor, shouting over the music: “He proposed in Zion National Park on the canyon overlook trail-– it overlooks the canyon!”

You thought you’d become the life of the party. Everyone would love you. You rat bastard.

But you know what, Wedding Crasher? I feel sorry for you. I really do. You must be incredibly lonely to do what you do. Sure, you score some cake, score some ass, score some points (at weddings that have games such as ours). But what do you have other than that?

You leech off other people’s best days, briefly feeling a love you don’t have. I see you, Wedding Crasher. I pity you. But I also have hope for you.

I hope you can find that real connection. I hope you find someone who sees you as you want to be seen. I hope you fall in love like I did with Sarah. 

Because let me tell you something, Crasher. There’s nothing sweeter.

We met in the Spring of 2019 in Boston. The last good year to date for a while.

The first time I saw Sarah, she was on stage, doing the most beautiful thing a woman can do on a stage: improvised comedy. She was on one of the improv teams that would perform weekly. I was on another team, watching from the audience.

Over the previous five years, I had spent every moment I could at the theater bartending and performing. Even on days off, I would stop by to see what was happening. The energy of live performance, of spontaneous creativity, was enticing and addicting. In a city rooted in the enshrinement of people long dead, the theater felt alive. Every night there was a show that would never happen the same way again. And for only 30 dollars! Click here for the link and use the discount code: SMORGUS. You’ll love it, Crash Money.

I knew everyone in the theater’s orbit. I was invested in changes to the shows. I knew the best place to get a bite between acts. I loved seeing the progress my friends and I had made as performers over the years. The theater had become home. So, of course it’s where I met Sarah.

She was on stage, in a scene where someone was learning to drive from progressively worse instructors: a felon on the run, a man with a driving phobia, an 8 year old. The final teacher was Sarah: a blind woman. She yelled, “I can’t see shit!”

It was the first of countless times Sarah would make me laugh.

Although she was a natural, Sarah was performing as an afterwork hobby. During the day she was excelling at her job for Converse as a graphic designer—or maybe a cobbler? I can’t remember which.

She had turned a college internship into a full time position, and over the course of 5 years became a Senior Designer on the Global Brand Creative team. While I was in a subterranean theater, Sarah worked at the top of the iconic “Converse” building, overlooking the famed Zakim bridge, next to the historic TD Garden, and across from a pretty good sandwich spot. 

She took inspiration from the creative team to build the visuals of enormous marketing campaigns. She traveled internationally to orchestrate photo shoots. And I swear she cobbled at least a few times.

Sarah went to a show at the theater with her coworkers, saw how the actors spun hot garbage suggestions from the audience into comedy, and immediately said, “I think I already do this.” Her boss replied, “yeah, you do.” A few months of classes, 100 word tosses, and one successful audition later, Sarah was on an improv team and in my life.

The teams ran for 10 weeks then people would have to audition again. Over the course of that run, Sarah and I slowly got to know each other. Our first interaction was at the bar. I served her a drink. We introduced ourselves. She tipped 20 percent. I remember it fondly.

We friended each other on Instagram– I know C-Money, Improv and Instagram? Could this story be more Millennial?!

That was a reference to the Friends character, Chandler from the early 2000’s. So… yes.

Anyways, that Spring I was also a part time dog walker and would post pictures of my cute, furry clients. Sarah commented on my story saying my job was basically a professional thirst trap. I started sending her pictures of dog poop to balance the content.

While that exchange is clear, obvious, classic flirting, Sarah had made an agreement with herself not to date anyone during the improv run. Still, I was a marked man, known to Sarah’s friends as “Bartender Joe''. Though I’ll remind you, I was bartending and performing at the theater.

Then came the end of the run.

After the last show, most of the performers went out to celebrate. Wouldn’t you know it, in the mess of people, Sarah ended up sitting on the barstool next to mine. No screen between us, no pretense of buying a drink, it wasn’t a glancing interaction. It was our first real conversation.

Sarah was how she always is: confident and silly, inventive and attentive, a thoughtful speaker and a caring listener. Also, cute as hell.

It felt like she was adventuring with me—our conversation going wherever, new places, new jokes, surprising each other, surprising ourselves—and there would always be more to explore. That feeling of companionship has never left. It’s made the important, meaningful conversations easier, and the easy conversations more meaningful.

We also talked about my upcoming trip to Italy. When I asked what souvenir I should get her, she thought for a moment then said, “a rock”. I didn’t stand a chance.

I flew to Italy two days later. The trip was laced with messages between me and Sarah. She had spent a semester of college in Rome, studying the ancient ways of cobbling I think. So I sent her pictures of every statue, fountain, and rock, asking if she recognized them.

My memories of Italy—the beauty and amazement, touring the Vatican in the morning, crossing the canals of Venice, eating thirty pounds of pasta—will always be intertwined with my early days with Sarah and all the excitement within each message.

Also, I was reading Call Me By Your Name throughout the trip. I was definitely in my feels.

While I was abroad, Sarah had gone on a trip of her own to Denver. But HER APPENDIX BURST ON THE FLIGHT and she had to spend the whole trip in the hospital. They were low on beds so they put her in the pediatric ward because she’d fit in the smaller bed. She watched The Lion King. You should ask her about it. She was also in her feels.

I was honored and impressed she found time to message me at all during that. I would’ve understood.

When we had both returned from our equally-impactful-yet-very-different trips, we had our first real date. Sarah was still recovering from surgery, but wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see her. She powered through and met me for a drink.

The connection we’d felt two weeks ago was right where we’d left it. 

I remember wanting more time with her, as I had from the start. That feeling became a constant that summer for several reasons, the biggest being I was moving to Los Angeles at its end.

My friends and I had been considering the move for a few years. We’d seen others from the theater progress to bigger cities and figured it was our turn to venture out—go to the center of the entertainment industry and experience a new time zone. It was also the last good year to move for a little while.

When I told her about the move, she said, “ahhh shoot” like I had reminded her tax day was the following week. (Also, tax day is actually around the corner, Crash Moolah. I’m writing this in January.)

And that’s how we treated it. We did our best to embrace reality as it was. Of course it loomed, but most of the time we were having too much fun to be sad. Sarah was genuinely happy for me, my friends, and our big “tax day adventure,” which of course made me love her more.

The move didn’t accelerate our relationship. It couldn’t have; we were already falling in love as fast as we could. I met her friends, she met mine. She met my parents on the fourth of July at their house alongside Oyster River. I met hers on July 12th on a bright day in Upstate next to the dusty Saratoga race track. We went to a Dave Matthew’s concert. She introduced me to her cat. He loved my shoes for some reason. We swayed in the entryway of her apartment, under the warm yellow glow of the light fixture as “Dancing in the Moonlight'' played. She gave me a note asking if I’d be her boyfriend. I said I thought I already was.

So we just kept going, giving our relationship the best chance by just being in it. And as the move grew closer, every version I imagined of life on the West Coast, all the possibilities, Sarah was always there.

When the time came and the brimming trunk was forced shut, we had long since decided to keep dating. We knew long-distance would be tough but we both had pretty good cellular data plans. 

Sarah would keep an eye out for job opportunities in Los Angeles and hopefully we’d be together within a year. Outside my empty apartment, we said the first of many tough goodbyes. My friends and I began our drive across the country. Sarah went and got pancakes.

Even though it was hard and we weren’t sure when we would be close again, I knew we’d make it. I was confident. I was in love. We made time for each other, planned visits, and our relationship continued to grow. 

Months passed. I started working in the film industry. Sarah interviewed for new jobs and eventually landed a position at a production company down the street from my office! She received the offer while visiting LA for a photoshoot with Converse. I stayed with her at The Standard Hotel in West Hollywood. She signed the paperwork while we had mimosas by the pool. This was going to be our new life together in Los Angeles. It was Valentine’s Day and Sarah was going to move out the following month, March of 2020. It ended up being kind of a not-so-great time to move across the country.

We went from long-distance to quarantining together, navigating a new city during a confusing time. It was challenging—as it was for everyone, of course. I don’t have to tell you, WC. You probably didn’t have any weddings to crash.

We had no idea what we were doing but we had each other. That’s probably the lesson to be learned in any city, during any pandemic. We learned what it meant to truly respect and support each other, make decisions together, and create a shared life. That’s why the divorce rate was so low during the bubonic plague. 

I knew it was time to get married when I realized that in so many ways, through successes and setbacks of the past three years, we already were. It’s like falling asleep, you pretend you’re doing it and pretty soon you are. 

Good times, hard times, everything in between, we’ve been partners from the start. Sarah has always been in my corner, appreciating who I am while bringing out the best in me. Who doesn’t want to be their best forever?

I bought the ring after we decided it was time for our next adventure back East. A pandemic was paired with the last move, I figured why not couple a proposal with this one?

Being me, I perseverated on all the ways I could propose to Sarah. I had dozens of ideas, including one where I would somehow combine them all. If you ask me to change a lightbulb, I’ll end up installing a chandelier.

Ultimately, a friend said, “stop trying to make it about you and just do it.” It was exactly what I needed to hear. I decided to propose during our three-week road trip back across the country. 

We were at Zion National Park. I took Sarah on a small trail that overlooked the canyon. It was called the Canyon Overlook Trail. I thought I’d bring the ring and if it felt right, I’d propose. If not, there would be other opportunities at Bryce National Park, the Grand Canyon, or at a rest stop on I-80.

It was February, the off season, so I figured we’d have the view pretty much to ourselves. And we mostly did. Only a few people shared the breathtaking summit, among them, a bride and groom. In a gown and suit. Taking wedding photos. A sign.

We found a spot on the cold, enormous rocks. Sarah looked out at the canyon. I looked at Sarah.

Proposing was like many of our conversations. We often talk about things we love about each other and how amazed we are by our journey–all the ways we’ve grown together. We basically propose to each other a few times a week.

It was the second day of the trip. LA was freshly behind us, the rest of the country and our lives lay ahead. And so it felt natural to talk about our relationship, the pride we had for our past, the hope we had for our future. Classic Sarah and Joe stuff. 

But this time, I punctuated the conversation with, “I’ve been meaning to ask since forever, if you’d spend forever with me.”

The ring on her finger, we hugged and kissed and yelled out, “we’re engaged!” The reverberations added our own microscopic but permanent mark onto the canyon carved over millennia.

And it was true, I had wanted to ask her since forever. Our little love had weathered so much and through it all, when I looked at Sarah, I saw my wife.

The nearby wedding photographer, being a human with normal human hearing, noticed the screaming and offered to take our photo for free right there.

I couldn’t have planned it better. Any of it. All of it. Maybe no pandemic. Maybe.

Well shoot. I just went and told you the whole story anyway. I guess I just got swept up, reliving my love and all that. But you know what, Crash Money? You’re not half bad. You’re actually pretty cool. 

So, I’d like to ask you once more, please don’t crash my wedding… because I’m officially inviting you. That’s right. No fake name, leave the prosthetic nose at home, ditch the elaborate backstory. Just be yourself, Crash Moolah Baby. You might meet someone who will love you as you are.

Take in the foliage, have an ugly cry, eat some cake.

I’ll see you on the dance floor.