Once upon a time in El Paso, TX, the stars aligned at a club where Amid, a soldier stationed in Fort Bliss, was busting some serious moves, battling it out on the dance floor like a break-dancing ninja. As my eyes locked onto him, I turned to my girlfriend and said, "That guy right there? He's gonna be my future husband." As Amid finished his epic dance moves, I mustered up some liquid courage and made my move. I walked up to him with confidence staring at him like he was the last taco on Taco Tuesday. He turned to me with a mix of confusion and his smoldering eyes and asked, "May I help you?" Without missing a beat, I shot back, "Yeah I want your digits." Smooth, right? He raised an eyebrow and asked for a pen?" I chuckled and said, Nope, but I've got a memory." He smirked and said, "You're gonna forget it." Challenge accepted. I thought. Little did he know, my brain was swimming in a sea of margaritas, and I thought I had committed those digits to memory. Spoiler alert: Margaritas and memory don't mix. Fast forward to the next night, and what do you know? Fate threw us together again at another club. Amid, clearly amused by my forgetfulness, entertained my attempts to recall his number. I promised him I'd not only remember it this time but also call at the absurd hour of 3:52am. Did I keep my promise? You bet I did! From that moment on, we were inseparable and living out our spontaneous novela. Want to hear more about our escapades, like how we tied the knot in a record-breaking six-minute ceremony? Join us for a laugh filled evening and maybe a margarita or dos.