On our first date, My Guy and I went on what we now lovingly refer to as The Death March.
After e-mailing and talking on the phone, we met on the morning of Mother’s Day to walk his dogs. There’s a trail that’s an old trolley line, and I figured it would be a good place for a first date. If he turned out to be a serial killer, I’d be in the middle of a neighborhood and could scream loud enough for someone to hear me.
See? I’m a planner.
So, we met and walked his two labradoodles. But we were talking and having so much fun that we just kept walking … and walking … and walking. And then we realized that we still had to turn around and walk back to our cars. The dogs were dragging. We joked that they hated me and would forever associate me with this trail of tears.
Fifteen months later, My Guy and I still walk a lot. It’s my preferred form of exercise, and it’s a great way to just spend time together. We talk. We make up elaborate stories about the places and people on our routes. And, lately? We put up with each other sweatin’ like farm animals and smelling like truckers. Because it is humid.
Friday night, we were back on the trolley trail. And we joked about The Death March while also walking much, much farther than usual. It started to get dark, but the sticky day was relaxing into a lovely summer night. We were just a couple of nerdy, stinky kids thinking this was a really good way to spend a Friday night.
And then he got down on one knee. And pulled a ring out of his pocket. And I couldn’t stop laughing.
And then I said yes.
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