I can only imagine that most people look to their parents for a relationship model, but that was never an option for me. It’s not that my mother and father were willfully antagonistic towards one another — apathetic is, perhaps, a better word — but that their marriage reeked more of obligation than love. In fact, my mother openly confessed that there were only two things that stood in the way of a divorce: a religious prohibition and me. But being a more devoted Christian than mother, she wasn’t about to blame God.

“If it weren’t for you,” she often told me, pointing the finger, “your father and I wouldn’t even be together.”

Without a blueprint to follow, I did what most of the kids from my generation did whenever reality failed to deliver a healthy archetype: I used movies and television to mediate my impression of how “normal” people did things. I waited for boys with boomboxes to woo me from the sidewalk. I figured true love would rush to my side at an airport gate, begging me not to leave. I imagined a 25th anniversary party for my partner and me in which both of us somehow still look 30. Obviously, I was single for a long time.

Before I met John, I celebrated anniversaries by the month. Two months was a big deal, three months a lifetime. The transient nature of my relationships reflected both my cynicism about romance and my idealization of it. Even the best romantic comedy can only sustain itself for two hours before the suspense of disbelief feels like holding your breath; a good breakup — romantic in its own right — was, in my mind, the way a heart exhales. I craved that breakup as much as the chase.

But the chase is sweet, and as my relationship with John developed in those first six months of 2006, I found myself wondering how this plot might play out if we resisted the impulse to rush to the credits. I thought about my favorite romantic comedy of all time — 1999’s Never Been Kissed, starring Drew Barrymore — and how unsatisfying it actually was to end a movie like that with just a kiss. I wanted to see Never Been Loved in the First Place or Never Been Forgiven For Being Such a Terrible Person. For the first time ever, I wanted to know how a movie called Never Been In a Real Relationship might end, and be perfectly happy if it never did.

I told John about my thing for Drew Barrymore very early on. I told him about Never Been Kissed, and about that time I watched Boys on the Side at 2 a.m. in a Los Angeles hotel room and went to sleep totally wrecked. I even told him about Home Fries. Fucking Home Fries! He politely humored me, as any good boyfriend should, but I insisted, somewhat jokingly, that Drew Barrymore had something to do with our relationship. I liked the idea of having some sort of fairy godmother that was technically younger than me.

So here’s the thing: I’m not superstitious or anything, but if you were to ask me when I knew this relationship was going to work out, I’d tell you it happened at a Starbucks in Chelsea, around the time of our four-month anniversary — a diamond anniversary in the relative history of my love life! I was sitting at a table, head down in my laptop, when I instantly recognized the voice ordering coffee. Without even looking up to confirm, I frantically approached strangers to borrow a pen or paper or anything but a napkin, and when I finally had what I needed, I sprinted to the milk-and-sugar station, where she was fixing her latte.

“I’m about to ask you for something stupid,” I said.

Drew Barrymore laughed as if that were the most wonderful thing she’d ever heard. If you know anything about the scientific correlation between oxytocin levels and looking at a cute puppy, it kind of felt like that.

I told her about my new boyfriend and how great I felt about our relationship. I also mentioned that she’s become something of a silent figure attached to all of it. I told her that John hates romantic comedies, but that if she could just write him a quick note, it would really crystallize the connection and maybe soften him up a bit.

It looked as if she were about to explode.

“Oh my God, yes!” she said, as she grabbed the pen and paper out of my hands and began to scribble the words “John,” “Love,” and “Drew Barrymore” across the sheet. Drew Barrymore hugged me and thanked me and wished us luck. It couldn’t have felt less feigned.

Later, when I went home, I hastily added a postscript: “Two hearts? Clearly, Drew loves you.” I framed the page and wrapped it up, still euphoric and eager to present this gift to John. Neither of us seemed to realize at the time that she actually drew three hearts on the sheet, not two. But it doesn’t matter. Somewhere, Olympia Dukakis — in the role of somebody’s wise mother — is waiting to interpret this as a plot-making metaphor in which love is neither quantifiable nor perfect.

The frame in this photo sits on our bedroom dresser today, on January 4, 2012, the sixth anniversary of our first date. Despite his aversion to the genre, John actually took me to see Music and Lyrics in 2007. I think he kind of liked it.