Many of you who know me well will recall that my memory is sometimes selective; I routinely remember what I ate and how it smelled instead of what their name was or who was with us when. Keep that in mind as your read my decidedly imperfect, but very joyful, recollection below. It’s been said, at least to me, that the only advice that holds up in all situations is “always make friends with the cook.” Quite true. When it comes to love, though, I think we should note in addition: 1) persistence is key, and 2) the eighth time’s the charm. Bre and I met under less-than-ideal circumstances. So less-than-ideal, in fact, that after a 23 second interaction, we both decided that we did not want to see each other again. As it turns out, neither of us is fond of set-ups, and that’s exactly what had been attempted. By sheer luck, intuition, circumstance, or all three, we became good friends that summer and fall, enjoying many evening trips to local breweries with our larger group of compatriots. And so it might be fitting, then, to say that the transformation from seeing Bre as a trusted and true friend to something more happened at one of these fine watering holes. Bre had invited me to join her and a few other friends from work, whom I did not know very well, on an excursion of afternoon day drinking, as one does [insert sarcasm here]. It should also be known at this point that Bre still denies any inkling of attraction at the time, as a motive for inviting me or otherwise, although the investigation is ongoing and witnesses will be called forth. On this particular day, though, I arrived late to find the group already established around a table, Bre sitting next to a young man who, I thought from a distance, looked to be very much like her potential boyfriend. I at once felt a wave of disappointment and slight anguish, similar to what you might feel on that second-to-last bite of your favorite donut. (I learned later: he was not that.) Read on for part 2.

Nonetheless, I arrived home that evening alone with my thoughts--and there were many. Too strong to ignore. I recognized immediately that I wanted to know more about this woman, and so I began to inquire--maybe a bit understated at first, and later with all the subtlety of a rhinoceros performing to Nickelback in a Disney on Ice show--about her, what motivated her, her family, her values, her preferred meal of the day. On the eighth try, after quite a few misalignments of schedules, Whole30 diets, prior engagements, and other words of declination (no hyperbole here, although this, too, is a disputed fact), Bre agreed to have dinner with me--just me--on a very cold February evening. From that night, the memory etched into my mind did not occur at dinner, but as we were leaving: she held my hand for the first time, and somehow, through four pairs of gloves, I felt an immediate sensation of contentment, security, and unity with her. Bre strongly remembers the lavender gin cocktail she had with dinner (good enough to write home about, certainly), and quite possibly more of the topics we discussed that night than I do (we really did cover them all). Almost a year later to the day, we became engaged. Along the way, we’ve learned: there’s no substitute for quality time, love doesn’t follow the path we might envision, and always make time for a long breakfast once in awhile. Holding her hand still feels the exact same as it did that first night.