My husband brought me flowers today.
"Happy Pearl Harbor Day," he said. But what he meant was Happy 8th Anniversary of Our First Dinner Together. His dad will tell you that our first date was at Kentucky Fried Chicken after a rehearsal for the Christmas play. It's not a date when two people are both hungry and just happen to be the opposite gender. Even if they do like each other. We didn't know, over KFC twisters, that the other person was interested.
Our first date was a couple weeks later. At Bennigan's. Thankfully. Because I'd feel monumentally depressed if our first official date was at an establishment with the words "fried chicken" in its title. Especially given how horrifically ill fried chicken made me when I was pregnant with The Rock Star. To this day I can only eat a piece every other year. On a Sunday. When the moon is in Aquarius.
So dinner--at Bennigan's--marked the day that I tumbled into love with my husband. We didn't say it until a few weeks later, which was still ridiculously soon, especially for me. But looking back, I think I loved my husband just seconds after I realized that there was the potential that he might, one day, love me back.
For reasons unbeknownst to me, he did.
Happy eight years.
"My beloved is mine and I am his..." Song of Solomon 2:16