Seriously, we don't care about football

After reading Emily’s post about how she and Dave were not, in fact, high school sweethearts despite some evidence to the contrary, I felt inspired to write about how Andrew came to be The Husband (as he was known on my former blog).

Andrew and I met at a Superbowl party in 1997, the Patriots’ first ever trip to the Superbowl, I believe. (You might think this would give the Patriots and/or the Superbowl a special place in our hearts, but there you would be wrong.) The party was hosted by a mutual friend of ours – Dr. The Professor – who had transferred from Andrew’s university to my university sophomore year.

Andrew and I talked quite a bit at the party, but it was cut short when I left somewhat abruptly as soon as the game ended so that I could go watch The X-files with a different group of friends. I know, I know! But what I think you do not realize it that it was an all-new episode, and also that I never ever realized it when someone was flirting with me. Ever. Dr. The Professor’s friend and I were just talking! It was perfectly innocent.

But when I got back home that night, Professor Lapp, who was one of my housemates at the time, said, “So! I noticed you and Andrew were really getting along at the party!” in that tone of voice which suggests a song about “K-I-S-S-I-N-G” may be brewing.

I blushed and said, “Uh, yeah! He seemed nice! But we were just talking,” and, honestly, that’s all I thought it was. A nice guy who I’d probably never see again.

But then the next morning, Dr. The Professor stopped me in the student center to say, “Maureen! Andrew wanted to me to tell you that he really liked talking to you last night, and could he email you?” I blushed* again, and said of course he could. I also mentally thanked Professor Lapp for putting the idea in my head that Andrew might actually want to date me, because without her I probably would have remained blindly oblivious.

We emailed back and forth for a few weeks, eventually progressing to phone calls. Thanks to our universities being 90 minutes apart from each other, our first actual date was not until spring break when we had dinner and saw the re-release of Return of the Jedi. We both had a good time despite the fact that Andrew was THIRTY MINUTES EARLY and there was nobody else home to answer the door. If you could have but seen the look on his face when I appeared wearing sweatpants and with soaking wet hair.**

He apparently got over it, however, because I noticed him stick a piece of gum in his mouth as we pulled into my driveway. He came into the house with me so we could discuss directions to the rock-climbing gym where our second date was going to be. There were several minutes of awkward small talk during which I thought to myself, “Well? WELL?” And then he said, adorably, “Um… do you believe in kissing on the first date?”

Needless to say, I did.

*Incidentally, why does the phrase “to blush” evoke a mental image of a sweet maiden with downcast eyelashes and an attractive glow to her cheeks when in reality, “to blush” means “to have your face and neck turn a hot, beet red that gets hotter and redder with the knowledge that everyone can see you are blushing.”

**And then he had the gall, years later, to complain to me that I was late. I set him straight and still bring it up on occasion in order to mock him, because, dude.