I’ve been feeling sentimental about my husband lately. I don’t know what is to blame. It could be the fact that he has been busy lately and I miss him. It could be the fact that I just read The Pioneer Woman’s sweet story about her and her husband. Or maybe it’s the old photos I was looking through the other day. (Fun fact: our dating-marriage was such a whirlwind that the photos of our second date and the photos of our first apartment are all in one photo album. And I take A LOT of photos, so that goes to show you how quickly things moved!) Either way, I’m feelin thoughtful and nostalgic and a little bit sappy. So here is a thoughtful yet nostalgic yet sappy post all about meeting my husband. You’ve been warned.
I don’t ever remember making the decision to marry my husband. I mean, I distinctly remember the phone conversation we had one night, each of us at our respective colleges, where I said, “Why would we wait to get married?” and to which he replied, “Well…” and to which I replied, “Exactly. Let’s just get married now.”
But I don’t ever remember thinking through who I should marry, if it were right or safe or practical or a good decision. I guess that’s because, in many ways, it was always a forgone conclusion. From the first time we met, until that late night conversation in my dorm room, there was never any question – just the assumption that this was the guy and I was the girl and of course, we were getting married.
We had been set up on a blind date the summer of my sophomore year of college. I was 19 and he was 20. I had just broken up with the guy I thought I’d be with forever. He had just broken up with the girl he thought he’d be with forever. We begrudgingly agreed to the blind date, not really interested in a relationship, especially with someone we didn’t know.
He showed up that night, on time and wearing what is now, in my mind, the quintessential “Mike-in-summer” look: faded jeans, flip flops, and a soft button down shirt in a solid and light color.
He was, hands down, the most good looking guy I’d ever seen, but still, I whispered to my mom from the top of the stairs where I stood, “Just send him away! I’ve changed my mind.”
My mom did not send him away. I don’t remember what she said, just that before I knew it, we were in his car and on our way to dinner.
I couldn’t tell you if I was nervous during that car ride, or over dinner, because I don’t remember feeling nervous. Mostly, I just felt skeptical.
“Who WAS this guy, anyways,” I thought, “with his dumb country music and gorgeous face?” Continue reading