Last year on MLK Day, I had three good friends over to my apartment for our monthly book club meeting. But the book wasn't really the topic of discussion. It was that I had met the man I was going to marry.
Before Matt and I had our first date, we planned our first three. He planned our first, and the following two unfolded through discussions about football and food. One of us said, "we should watch the playoffs together this weekend." Both the Steelers and the Jets had playoff games, on Saturday and Sunday, and there was football to be watched, so let's watch it together. He probably didn't really believe that I knew what a safety was until that Saturday afternoon on his couch when I became, as he claimed politely, "animated," during the Steelers game. Yes, a girl who likes football. That's often referred to as jackpot.
For Sunday's festivities, he offered to make his homemade pasta sauce. I'll see your jackpot and raise you an omgpleaseproposetomorrow.
By the time I saw my friends on Monday, I was quite smitten. I had no qualms about saying I would marry this man. I was certain of it. Like good friends that they are, they were very excited for me for having met someone that I was excited about. Also like good friends that they are, they said whoa, let's slow down on the marriage talk until, say, one week passes. No doubt you could be correct about this, but take a minute to breathe. So I exhaled, and continued to beam. And, again like the good friends I have, they asked to hear more about him, see his picture on Facebook, verify that he was unlikely to be a serial killer.
Not one day has gone by in the last year that I have regretted telling my friends that I had met the man I would someday marry. I've since told everyone I know, plus some strangers, too.