It was ten years ago yesterday that The Wife and I first met.
In a bar, of all places.
I almost blew it as the evening ended, when she saw me drive off in my grad-student hatchback. Apparently, “chicks dig hatchbacks” is one of those rules that’s only true in some alternate universe. On a subsequent date, I explained that some guys drive really big trucks to compensate for other shortcomings, and that’s why I only needed a hatchback. She was amused.
Ten years later, we’re married with two beautiful, silly, sweet children.
This weekend we went to a major social function for the college, attended by many a big muckety-muck. The tickets cost more than I made in a week when we met. We dressed like grown-ups (except for the pink fuzzy slippers she wore in the car, to spare her feet), schmoozed with Important People, and acted like Very Mature Pillars of the Community. But I still got a kick out of being with the prettiest girl in the room.
I’m guessing that will still be true in another ten. And another.
