We celebrated seven years, the Kisa with me. We celebrated through our stomachs and greedy eyes. Who would have thought Friendly’s and Germany could be oh so romantic? It’s the memory that counts. First Friendly’s. It’s where we met. It’s where I disliked him strongly – enough to make fun of him to his face. Immature. I called him. Overweight. I scoffed. Tattooed deadhead. Enough said. Fast forward seven years and he’s remembering a bad perm and fishnets with sneakers. Who’s laughing now? My comeback is three words – green colored Vans. What was that, I ask. Velvet? In perfect unison we quoted my then-landlord, “you know he’s a good guy if he takes care of his shoes.” The red Jetta with clutch problems. Not-so-idle threats from a girlfriend who had seen this girl get hurt one too many times. What was the name of that bartender? I’m tempted to consult the Oracle but refrain. We’re on a date after all.
Dinner was German. Big soft salty Bavarian pretzel covered in spicy mustard. Meats I cannot and will not dare pronounce. Meat everything. Impossible to even pretend to be vegetarian. Not a green thing in sight. Cabbage cooked more ways than I knew possible. Frosty steins of golden bubbling beer. I had something Oktoberfest-ish that lasted all though dinner. Orgasmic chocolate cake we couldn’t finish (oh darn, they were out of strudel).
It’s not high on anyone’s rules of romance but we ended the evening with presents. Criminal minds (in more ways than one) and The Closer. After seven years I don’t worry about Immature. I like a younger man who still finds me irresistible. Overweight. Who hasn’t gained a pound or two in seven years? Tattooed deadhead. I have been known to hum A Box of Rain and then there’s that tattoo. I fell in love with Harvey and who says I don’t have one of my own?
Marriage is what you make of it, especially when you declare the forever and ever part. We said our vows in a hurricane and we’ve weathered every storm since. So. Here’s to my romancer.