My sister Lucy loves to tell people that Dave and I owe our marriage to her.
And it’s true.
Set up on a blind date, Dave was the second of 3 young men my sister had deemed worthy. (I have this sneaking suspicion that Dave was considered maybe only marginally worthy as he was not Scandinavian and had no idea what lefse was, but older sisters can’t be exactly right on everything!)
That first meeting was awkward and uncomfortable, but something must have intrigued me, because it wasn’t a week later and I found I absolutely needed to go watch this near stranger play hockey.
After the game, sweaty and stinking like only a hockey player can, he asked if he could call. I said yes.
On our first real date, he brought flowers, took me to a way out of the way, hole in the wall restaurant that served the most amazing food. He didn’t blink an eye as I put away plate after plate. We talked for hours. (I can’t remember what the conversation was, probably due to the onset of a food coma). He drove me home, walked me to my door, did not kiss me (coward) and asked if he could see me again.
I said “no”.
I think I saw his eyes widen just a tiny bit, but he just nodded and said “ok”.
Then I told him I was kidding and that I would love to see him again.
He tells me that is the moment he knew he wanted to marry me.
There was another date, more flowers, another great restaurant.
Then a 3rd date, this time he brought me chocolate, but no flowers.
It was after this date that I called my dad and told him I had fallen in love, and I was going to marry this guy, even though he drove a Chevy (and not a Ford).
56 days after the first time we met, he asked, and I said yes.
6.5 months after that first dinner at Lucy’s house, we were pledging our lives to each other in front of our family and our friends.
It’s been 22 years since we stood in the front of that church.
22 years of (sometimes hard) work.
22 years of (more than I dreamed possible) adventure.
22 years of (never too much) fun.
22 years of (exactly the right amount) of love.