I’m slightly sentimental and before I had the blog to chronicle the daily happenings of life, I kept all my old calendars so that I could refer to them to see what we had done, who we had seen, who got married, had a birthday, etc. Those old calendars have been helpful to remind me of important dates and note the time that has passed.
There is one date, though, that keeps getting transferred to every new family calendar year after year because it’s very meaningful and never fails to bring laughter when it rolls around every year; the anniversary of Mr. CPQ’s and my very first date together.
I was very recently removed from a horrific breakup and not really ready to start dating anyone again when I met Mr. CPQ. He, however, knew a good thing when he saw it and even though he knew I was being pursued by another guy, was determined to get me to go out with him.
He called me on a Sunday afternoon and in his ever-so-casual way suggested that we get together on Monday night to go out for pizza. And do you know what I said? In the most indifferent and horrid way possible? I said, “I’ll go out with you but you need to understand we are not going to call it a ‘date’. We are going to call it an ‘activity’.” There was a slight pause while he thought long and hard about what he had just signed up for and then he told me I could call it whatever I wanted. Shooting myself further in the foot, I then continued down the reckless path and informed him that I would not dress up for him.
My next book?
“How NOT to Get a Boyfriend”
And he said, “Fine. I’ll wear a sweatshirt. Is that casual enough for you, your Royal Highness?”
And I said, “Fine. Pick me up at 7.”
And so I wore minimal make-up and my Notre Dame sweatshirt because I would eat bees for Lou Holtz and didn’t know he hated the Irish and he wore his CU sweatshirt which I still don’t know why he has it because none of us have people there but, whatever, and we went to Old Town Alexandria for pizza at Armand’s which is now tragically closed.
And because I was raised in a family of boys and clearly have no regard for appearances, I helped myself to plenty of pizza while we talked about our family and background and towards the conclusion of the meal he generously offered the last piece of pizza to me, fully expecting me to turn it down since I’d had three pieces already and I took it.
And he sat there in stunned silence.
And then said, “You’re not really a side salad kind of girl, are you?”
And I cackled out loud and then we went to Ben & Jerry’s for ice cream where he had the fudge brownie and I had the vanilla, and sixteen years later, we still have fudge brownie and vanilla ice cream in our freezer living in peaceful harmony.
And I still fight him for the last piece of pizza.
I love you, Babe.
Thanks for going out with me even though I was and continue to be psycho.
Have a nice day.