(This was today's post from Fruita Moms, where I contribute weekly. I thought I should post it here, for posterity sake. Like, for those moments when he's driving me crazy and I need a reminder of how great he really is :) )
That drive from Gothenburg to Kearney, Neb., was the longest and shortest drive I’ve ever made.
I spent most of it texting my bestie, freaking out about what I was about to do. Yes, I was driving and texting. Yes, Mother, I know you tell me to never drive and text.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was driving to Kearney for a date. A real, live date. I had gone on a few before this, but this one I was nervous about.
He invited me over to his house to cook me dinner. No one had ever offered to cook me dinner. This was foreign territory.
I told at least three friends the exact address I would be at. The “supposed” name of this character. I even sent his Facebook page to Sarah, so that when I went missing, they’d know where to start looking for the body.
Paranoid much? Me? Never!
We had talked on the phone the night before, and most of it was laughing and joking. I felt good about my decision to go through with the date, even though I was afraid I might end up in a bath tub of ice, with a missing kidney by morning.
I walked up the driveway, almost dropping the bottle of wine I was carrying (I’m nothing if not dependable about my clumsiness).
He mentioned that he already had a bottle of Malbec open. Which is my favorite red wine. Which I told him. And he actually listened! He was already scoring points from the get-go.
I made sure to immediately alert him to the fact that my friends knew where I was. That if he was a serial killer, he should probably skip me, because they all knew where I was and who I was with. That, and I had to pick up my kids from school the next day, and they’d be really disappointed if Mom didn’t show up because her Sunday night date had ended very, very badly.
In hindsight, I’m not sure why he even continued with the date. I was obviously a little crazy. He should have been scared for his own safety at that point.
Lucky for me, he embraced the craziness. Also, lucky for me, he’s a fantastic cook. He prepared an incredible homemade meal. He lit a candle. He had wine. We ate. We talked. We laughed a lot. We watched a movie. We drank more wine. We talked more. There may have been a kiss or two. Maybe three. That first kiss may have given me butterflies.
It was the best date I’ve ever had.
Six months later, I still melt a little when he smiles. I still act incredulous when he says something sarcastic and snarky to me. This is usually followed by laughter. He takes care of me when I’m not feeling well. He calls me on my ridiculousness when I’m being ridiculous. He’s resigned himself to the fact that his cat, Dexter, loves me more than him. He kills the spiders (with a little fanfare), he cleans my long, red hair out of the shower drain (with just a minimal amount of complaint), and he still cooks for me.
I think I’ll keep him.