We met, not the very first time… but for the last first time… at a Husker Basketball game. In the RedZone. A friend wanted me to tag along… so I did. And we hung out as a group.
He was roomies with one of my BFFs boys. And so I knew he was a smartypants from the get-go. I knew he was darling. And I knew that he could be easily vetted.
I had done my fair share of kissing. And had boyfriends here and there. But never had I ever been in love.
The first time we kissed, he actually kissed me. In the back of a car. On the way home from a party. While a sorority sister and his friend sat in front. And I said, “How drunk are you?”
I often joke that he really just licked my face. And I laughed.
It’s really a love story for the ages.
…
He called the next day. And then, we started hanging out… like, constantly. It was right before Christmas break of 2001, and I spent most of my time prepping for finals in his dorm room while he played Mario Kart with his friends because he didn’t need to study. And I’m pretty sure he thought my method of studying weeks in advance and making flash cards and obsessing over it all was akin to some rare animal ritual.
Our first date… he took me to the other side of town, the part that at the time, felt fancy… to Macaroni Grill. As a 19 year old, I pretty much felt like that was winning, especially given the fact that the last guy who attempted to ask me out right before we met offered to “get taco bell sometime…” and while there’s nothing wrong with Taco Bell…
I remember that I loved that he opened the door for me. How he smelled. How he looked smokin’ hot with a fresh hair cut. How I loved his chin dimple and his greenish eyes. I remember that I loved how his hand felt on mine. I remember that I smiled by big wide toothy smile and batted my big huge fish eyes at him all evening. I was able to be as much of myself as a 19 year d girl can be on a first date. And that I loved how I was totally being the crazy person I was and he wasn’t selling.
The first date went into the wee hours of the morning. We watched Pearl Harbor. At least the first disc. We kissed. A lot. And at around 2 or 3 am he said he would take me home and I, apparently, was a woman with moxie replied, “Or I could stay.”
(I know. I’m a floozy. But hey, it worked out okay after all.)
It was the first time I’d shared bed space with a boy. And I remember loving how it felt to put my head under his, right in the crook of his neck, with his arm around me. I remember feeling safe. I remember feeling butterflies.
…
Gosh darn it. I was only 19. This was really messing with my plans. The plans to not meet a guy in college. The plans to be an independent woman. The plans to meet someone eventually in a large coastal city. But God wasn’t hip to my plans, apparently.
And just a month later, I was in love.
Sometimes it just happens like that.
Sometimes first dates become first mornings become first loves.
Thank goodness.
…
I love you, Mr. Brehm. Thanks for always loving me. For asking me out on a date. For holding my door. For letting me still fit right under your chin. And for continuing to date me for the last 15 years. I started liking you for so many reasons and fall in love with you over and over for so many more. And though it hasn’t always been seamless, it’s been us doing it all together… and I say I say, I think I made the right choooice. I’m glad you were up for the challenge that comes with being my better half.
Happy first date-aversary. God Bless, Husker Basketball, Macaroni Grill, and the first disc of Pearl Harbor. Maybe sometime we can watch the second.
