his is a nice love story.
When I first met my husband, I
was just coming out of a tumultuous time. I had married young, and neither of us was ready. It had fallen apart in a prolonged, dramatic fashion. I came back to the city to pick up the pieces of my shattered life. I dated a little, but I was raw and vulnerable and making bad choices.
I had decided not to try to meet anyone for a while, then I met him.
We were introduced through mutual
friends in the clichéd way that people meet in Chicago: In a bar, during March Madness, and again at the Old Town Art Fair. We ran into each other one more time at a birthday party. I arrived early (something I rarely do), and he was there early (something he usually does). He remembered my name (nobody ever remembered my name). We talked at the bar, and it struck me that he was nice. So nice.
Eventually, we planned a date, weeks away, because of his travel schedule. In between, we texted and spoke almost every day. Finally, we went to the now-shuttered Rose Angelis, a popular first-date location. He snuck a kiss at the bar across the street after dinner.
When I did the post-date phone debrief with my sister, I confessed: He might be too nice for me. I am not that nice, what if I am terrible and break the heart of this nice man?
She admonished: You will go on at least three dates, and you will have fun. You deserve someone who is nice, who is nice to you.
So I did, and I did, and he was, and he is.
When I introduced him to my parents, my mother liked this boyfriend of mine right away. “You seem so happy,” she remarked. “I like who you are when you’re with him.”
I had to agree.
T