My memory spans back fourteen years, to one of our first dates. We were seventeen. He, handsome, confident, intriguing, took me bowling. Me, before-baby body, wearing jeans that were slim and much too long, was concerned I'd trip. Still, not wanting to stop the fun, determined to beat him at the game, I'd asked the lady at the front desk to borrow her stapler. I'd stapled the hem of my jeans, and went on to beat him at bowling.
I don't remember the scores, but I remember the smiles, the growing friendship, the way we were comfortable together, the way we had eyes only for one another.
Tonight, that same man, now in his thirties, took me out for a date night. My sister watched out eight children, ate their attempt at dinner, slightly undercooked pasta, being serenaded with VeggieTales music in the background. Thankfully, Trever and I went to share a sandwich. He bought me coffee and pumpkin bread for dessert, and then that same man, all these years later, took me bowling.
I watched him, a few pounds heavier and a few more smile wrinkles gracing his masculine face. His bowling stride looked the same. He did little dance moves to make me smile. We, even more comfortable now than at the beginning, cheer one another on, reminisce on past bowling dates. My shoulder, sore from sleeping on it oddly, trying to nurse our wee one in the middle of the night, prevented me from achieving high scores.
We played two games. Both my scores together were still under 200. But it was fun. My jeans fit this time around, and I wasn't as determined to beat him. I just like being with him. I like this man I married. And as he smiles and tells me I am beautiful, I cherish the couple of hours alone with him.
Like all things that are better with time, we have aged well together.