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?”
We had dinner at Macaroni Grill. He had never been there before and asked me for a suggestion of what to eat. I suggested something loaded with mushrooms. It wasn’t until we were married that I realized he hated mushrooms. But that night, he ate the meal anyways because I had made the recommendation. After dinner he took me to the mall, not so that we could shop, but so I could point out all the things I liked and that interested me. “So I can get to know you better, ” he said.
I was impressed.
Over the course of the evening our skepticism started to fade and the two of us began talking and never quite stopped.
We eventually started to drive towards my home, but as neither of us were ready to end the date, we decided to stop for dessert. After dessert, we headed to a local walking path.
That night, as evening set in and the stars came out, we walked lap after lap around that path, sharing stories, asking each other questions, and feeling like we had known each other all our lives.
At one point, he kissed me.
I don’t have a great memory, and my recall tends to be fairly questionable. But that kiss. That kiss I will remember for the rest of my life.
It was in that moment that I fell in love. It was with that kiss, that I met my husband.
So if there was a moment, one moment in time where I asked myself who I was going to marry and if that was a good decision and have-I-really-though-this-through, I guess it was then. Because after that night, there was never really any question of who – only when.