Until a few years ago, I never would have considered a long distance relationship a realistic option for myself. I once dated a guy who lived on the other side of the city and that relationship was challenging enough, though to be fair, our problems probably had more to do with him being a douche bag than the 30-minute drive between our apartments, but still. Long distance relationships were what other people did — people who spent all their money on gas and plane tickets and their weeknights scouring the internet for travel deals and want ads in their significant other’s city. They weren’t for people like me, who’d rather spend money on shoes, and evenings cooking dinner with a boyfriend I could see as often as I wanted.

It was early spring, late afternoon, a couple of years ago and I was having beers and burgers with some girlfriends. It was warm enough that we sat on the patio outside where we ate and drank and talked about boys.

I was the youngest in the group — still a few months shy of my 30th birthday and conversation soon turned to the challenge of finding a good man before we all died alone with a bunch of cats in the living room and stale cereal in the cabinet.

“I don’t understand why it’s so hard,” I said, “I just want someone who’s funny and charming and kind and gracious and creative and ambitious and smart. Curly hair, glasses and dimples don’t hurt either,” I added.

My friend Meg immediately said she knew the perfect guy for me — that he was everything on my list.