One year ago today, a lonely, jaded, kinda pathetic single girl walked across the street to the divey Mexican place in the strip-mall her date had selected. Little did she know that the night would be one she would remember forever.
Someone met me outside the restaurant, smiling broadly. He gave me a warm hug that felt not-at-all awkward, even though most “this is a blind date and we met on the Internet and you’re a stranger but a handshake would be weird” hugs on dates such as those are awful. He smelled good. He was tall. Mama likey.
What followed was a few margaritas and a lot of conversation. Someone told me that no one had ever asked him questions the likes of which I had in my back pocket (and if you know me at all, you know that giving people the accidental third-degree is kinda my M.O.). We were flirty. We laughed and smiled. I looked at him across the table and thought, “Hmm, could be.”
I remember us talking about Bill Clinton and college; I remember us going to the bathroom at the same time because we thought it was silly to leave the other person alone because of a social standard. I remember talking about the weirdest foods we have ever eaten and the craziest places we’d ever been. I remember delighting in the fact that he knew and used big words correctly, and we both edited the menu of the restaurant out loud. We stayed out way past our bedtime, and when the night was over I didn’t want to leave. He walked me home (the whole 200 feet) and kissed me. It was perfect.
That night I remember tossing myself onto my bed like Cher in Clueless and texting a friend that he was “cute and funny, and maybe a little too smart for his own good.” I smiled with glee when I got his text, 5 minutes later, telling me he had a great time. He wrote: “I want to take you out Saturday night, to a weird Russian place.”
And the rest is kind of history.
Happy Anniversary to my one love, my Someone, my rock and my best friend. I have had the best year of my life with you and cannot wait to have many more!