My husband may not be the most romantic guy in the world on a daily basis (unless unloading the dishwasher a couple times a week qualifies as romance), but when it comes to the big moments, he really does it right. He agonizes over things like setting and mood and timing and the EXACT RIGHT WORDS. I find it all very endearing.
Jennie wrote about how it took her husband five months to tell her he loved her, which I thought was funny because that was exactly how long it took my husband. And Jennie and I both knew a heck of a lot earlier than that how we felt about those crazy men of ours.
Dave and I started dating in July 1999. Well, dating seriously. We’d been out a few times before that, but it was July when I decided to let him kiss me. From then on out we were pretty much inseparable. When New Year’s Eve came, we knew we would both be working (newspaper reporters, Y2K scare, you get the picture) for at least part of the night. We were both able to break away about 11 p.m. though and head to a big shindig where many of our friends were already partying. As the clock struck 12 on a new year and a new century (depending on your viewpoint on the whole century deal), fireworks filled the sky in front of us. Standing behind me, Dave leaned in and whispered, “I love you.” I smiled and said I loved him too. And we made out for a minute.
It was all so sweet, I almost forgave him for dancing to “The Humpty Dance” while clutching a bottle of champagne later on that night. Almost.