When in the Hell Was Our First Date Again?

On this week, 12 years ago, I began dating a guy. You may know him as Husband; you also may be wondering why I say this week and not this day because I bet, if you’re in a relationship, like most couples, you can point to an exact date on the calendar and say, “This! This was the day we went on our first date.”

Husband and I are fuzzy on that detail… maybe you can help us decide.

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here’s what happened…

Husband and I met in an elementary school; in a copy room to be exact, and it would be about a month before he actually spoke to me. He was adorbs (!!!) but I couldn’t think of anything more awkward and awful than working in the same classroom (every. single. day) with a romance gone bad so I excuse-vomited some pretty lame reasons the first couple times he asked me to, casually, hang out with him and friends. Until one Saturday night when we agreed to meet up. {enter March 10}.

“Why did you agree to a Saturday night,” my best friend laughed mockingly. “You can’t back out of a Saturday night.”

“I can’t?” I asked, seriously wondering why I couldn’t. “It’s not a date.”

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t cancel Saturday night plans on Saturday evening. That’s too late for someone to make other plans. That’d be f*cked up,” she reprimanded.

So as most girls do, we made a plan for her to call me at a designated time. If it was going well, I’d stay — if it wasn’t, I’d bolt.

the actual date

Me and the Mister went to Doll’s Place, a not-so-fine establishment of beer and hot dogs. I gave myself some boundaries: You will not stay late. You will not drink more than 2 beers. This was a delicate situation and I didn’t want Heineken making my decisions.

“This was a delicate situation and I didn’t want Heineken making my decisions.”

Drinking the Whole Bottle

But somewhere in between the bubbles of that first and second beer, my best friend’s call came and went. Somewhere in between those carbonated libations, I realized I didn’t need beers to make a bad decision… I could make them all on my own. This guy was super cute before and now he was something on an entirely better level (and cuter). But I quit while I was ahead and made it home by midnight. No first kiss. No bad decisions. Just a big time crush.

big time crush

It seemed that a couple of beers at a hot dog dive bar was all we needed to become grossly attached. That week we found any reason to hang out. Dog park? Sure. Do you have a dog? 6th grade basketball game? Oh yeah… I was totally going to that anyway (No. No I wasn’t.) He volunteered with exuberant joy to escort me to the DMV. (I mean, poor fool must have been in love to offer that up.)

That Wednesday, 3 days worth of hanging out later, we met at another not-so-fine establishment for a game of darts. We talked about wanting to live abroad, maybe even, teach abroad. That night, we also had our first kiss, though we remember it spectacularly differently. He remembers standing in the middle of a quiet street and poetically turning around before marching back up to me — March winds blowing in our hair. I remember calling him back like a Nicholas Sparks’ movie — March winds blowing in our hair. We’ll never know whose version of that scene is accurate. Mystery is good. But I digress.

Somewhere in that first week, in one of the only moments we weren’t physically together, he asked me to a proper dinner at his favorite restaurant. {Enter March 17}

proper date

I can’t remember what he wore or what I wore, but I could tell you exactly where we sat, at what table — where he was, where I was. I remember the French bistro ambience with its old Parisian feel, vintage art lamps and perfect lighting and thinking he had nailed this date. It was a time before I documented everything on social media so there are no selfies, only nostalgic snapshots. The dinner is framed in perfection as so happens with memories; their fleeting nature leaving nothing else but the feelings that danced around us that night. And I remember the butterflies and possibility and that after talking too much I apologized and he answered, “I like hearing you talk.”

Swing. Hit. Out of the park. I loved this guy that quickly.

From our fancy dinner, we went to a spot known for salsa dancing. From there we made it to — you guessed it — a not-so-fine establishment; the kind where they serve $5 vodka sprites in foggy pint glasses — foggy for all the wrong reasons… but no matter. The glasses were foggy, but I was crystal clear.

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So… you see why we’re so fuzzy about the date of our first date? Was it the day I almost canceled that was “not a date?” The night that ended with our first kiss? Or the night of our proper dinner?

help us decide — What date would you say is our date-iversary?

leave us a comment.

(Though I guess the only date that really matters is this one. Today. And then tomorrow and then all the days that come after that week in March.)

P.S. Glitter and Glue and How to Sneak in Time for Date Night