On
our second date, we went to Figlio in Uptown. It was early, and the bar
was nearly empty. We talked for a couple of hours. At one point, we both looked
up and around, and realized the bar was packed with people. We had been
so engaged in conversation that we hadn't realized anyone else was
there.
Three weeks after we met, we played Taboo together. We SQUASHED the other team, because we were just so in synch, guessing one another's clues as if we shared a brain. I think that's when I knew that I'd marry you.
The night before our wedding, I didn't sleep a wink. I
called you every two hours on the dot to let you know that I still
wasn't sleeping yet. You answered every time. My dad walked me down the
aisle. When we got to the front of the church, where you were
standing, he shook your hand. I heard him say to you, "take care of my
baby." And with a tear in your eye, you said "I will."
On our honeymoon, we wrote letters to one another to be
opened on our 50th anniversary. I begged you to let me read yours
before you sealed the envelope, insisting that I would never remember
what it said when I opened it again, at age 75. You didn't let me.
Shortly after the wedding, you came down with a
mysterious illness. It was the scariest time in both of our lives. I
headed straight to the hospital after work each day you were there, and
stayed with you until it was time for bed. The day you were
misdiagnosed as having a terminal virus was the worst day of my life
(until April 1st, 2013). I crawled into the tiny hospital bed with you
and we cried. We got through it together because we were a team. In sickness and in health.
We had a mouse in our apartment one day. I stood on the
couch and told you to trap it under a coffee mug. Turns out that's not
actually how to capture a mouse.
You only
ate sugar on holidays, and every holiday I snuck a pound of Twizzlers,
your favorite, into your bag. I knew you'd finish them before noon.
Once, on a whim, you bought me an 8-inch stuffed bear and
put it in my car before work. You had no idea that he would become our
pseudo-child. We named him Bear, and slept with him every night. We
talked to him about life. We taught him tricks, like back-flips and
turning off light-switches. You told me bedtime stories about Bear on
nights that I was feeling restless.
There were moments when you almost gave up on finishing your PhD. But the day I watched you walk down the aisle in your regalia, I couldn't have been prouder. I threw a big party for you, but overestimated the amount of cake we needed. We ate leftover cake for days.
We played 300 games of Yahtzee together one summer, and
did a statistical analysis about whether we could predict who would win
based on the first two turns. Result: the null hypothesis was true.
Yahtzee really is just a game of luck. And we were super big nerds.
When I decided to run a marathon, you were skeptical at first. But you warmed up to the idea, and eventually fully supported it. You mapped out a spectating route and managed to see me seven times along the 26.2 mile course, cheering wildly each time. You made six different fan signs. I don't think I would have finished without you there.
