Ten years ago this Friday, my husband and I went on our first date. This fact makes me feel incredibly old, though I suppose that I should give myself a little slack since we started dating our freshman year of college.
My husband and I kissed before our first date. I use the term kissed loosely. It was more like he leaped the length of his bed to pounce on my face. I probably could have smacked him, but when he asked if I would go to the school opera with him, I decided I liked that idea better than hurting my hand in a failed attempt to hit his face.
So, on October 11th, 2003 at 2pm, he took me to see Cosi fan Tutti. On our campus, being taken to the school opera was a really cool date. We were all theatre geeks, except for the dancers. They were just hungry. We sat in the dark watching people sing about being unfaithful, and he held my hand. I thought it was nice, and he was nice. And perhaps at some point in the near future maybe we would do this whole date thing again. He thought I was now his girlfriend.
Apparently, in his world if a girl holds hands with you at an opera, you’re now a couple. It was like I got pinned at the Opera. When I told him that no, I was not in fact his girlfriend, but I did have a lovely time, he may have gotten a teensy bit upset. But telling him no was the best decision of my life. He had a tendency to date girls for about three weeks and then lose interest. But he didn’t lose interest with me. He spent the next month trying desperately to convince me that being his girlfriend was not only the best gig a dance major could get, but also the best life choice for me. Eventually I gave in. And it was the best choice.