Well, I’m back from Chicago (although the suburb of Schaumburg is where we spent the majority of our time…close enough), and it was heavenly.
I mean, Chi-town itself was pretty great—my third favorite city ever, I think (behind Paris, France and Sydney, Australia).
But it had been such a very long time since my husband and I had spent anything longer than maybe 4 hours together without any distractions, any sticky little fingers pawing at our legs, or any projects to hash out that I found myself reveling, not in the location, but in the presence of the man whom God hand-picked to be my husband (a fact that I don’t doubt for a moment since, although Shaun is not perfect, he is absolutely perfect for me).
We held hands like a couple of schmoopy teenagers.
We sneaked kisses on the train.
We sat on the same side of the booth at every restaurant we went to (the better to continue the hand-holding, even if though it considerably increased the chances of major neck-cricks).
And we even insisted on wedging ourselves into the same little section of the revolving glass doors that seemed to be everywhere we went—while holding hands, of course—which made Shaun take small, shuffling steps and me constantly bump into his back and both of us giggle (don’t tell him I said that).
There is not (and has never been) a single other person on the planet with whom I simply enjoy being more.
It doesn’t matter what we do.
It doesn’t matter why we do it.
If he’s there, I’m happy.
He gets me…100%.
He sees me at my worst (and best, whenever that happens to be).
And he loves me.
And I feel the same way (though it’s so much more than a feeling).
And so, in honor of the last 7 years of “wedded bliss” (our wedding date was June 2nd, 2005, and it really has been pretty stinkin’ great), I thought I’d share a little about the origin of our love story this week.
Speaking of the beginning, Move-it Monday is actually a fairly fitting theme to start out, considering that our first remembered encounter happened on a volleyball court.
It wasn’t love at first sight.
Heck, it wasn’t even flirt at first sight.
I was 20-years-old.
My hair was pulled back in a long, curly ponytail, with an extra side of frizz and sweat.
I remember that I was wearing an ultra-flattering, boxy, primary green Tatum Eagles (the mascot of the high school where I was teaching at the time) t-shirt.
I was the Twenty-Somethings (our church’s college/young adult group) social event coordinator, which is a fancy way of saying that I put together our various outings and get-togethers, but I wasn’t in charge of Friday night volleyball, which had a core of regulars and as well as a regular flux of newbies and sometimers.
It wasn’t my turf.
So, even though I remember that there was a new guy named Shaun there that night, I’m not sure we even spoke.
I was too busy trying to get my unpredictable overhead serve under control.
Pretty romantic stuff, huh?
Oh, but wait.
It gets better.
Especially when you fast-forward three months to the New Year’s Eve party at my parents’ house where Shaun—whom I still didn’t know very well—managed to plant a hand squarely on my hindquarters, all in the name of taking me prisoner in a game of Capture the Flag (that’s what he claims, anyway).
That’s also the night that I trounced him in multiple games of ping-pong, the first time I noticed what an incredible smile he has, and the event that started The Great Email Flirtation of 2004.
But since we’re past most of the exercise-themed parts of our story for now, the rest will have to wait for tomorrow.
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