Jadedju’s thoughtful essay on dating, Don’t Ever Take a Walk with Me, got me thinking, which is often a bad idea, so I stopped and began to reminisce instead.

Not only is my wife a very sweet person at times and I {{{heart}}} her a whole lot, which by itself is probably enough of a reason to stay married; being married also means I don’t have to date anymore (except for dates with my wife which I enjoy greatly, or dad-daughter dates with my daughters, which is also nice). But dating-dating? First-dating? I am so thankful I don’t have to do that. So, so thankful. I would rather go in for another root canal than go on a first date.

I’ve had a couple memorable dates, though, back in the sad days before I met my wife.

Liisa, for example. A smart brunette of Finnish extraction I met at college in Seattle. Interesting tastes in music and attire. Exotic double vowel in her name. Liked to eat and drink. She invited me over to her dorm room (she lived a couple floors down or up and down the hall) for lasagne and wine. All her dorm-mates were out. We filled up on the delicious pasta dish she had cooked and emptied a bottle or two of red wine.

We sat down on the sofa. She got what I thought was a sort of dreamy or sleepy expression in her eyes and lay down with her head in my lap, and did something I will never forget as long as I live.

I won’t say what it was Liisa did on account of all the freaky search visitors that would attract, but when my kids were little, like babies, especially the first one, you know how you want to make sure they get enough to eat, or actually drink, and you sort of insist they finish the entire bottle of formula, then you prop them up on your shoulder and burp them and they go *BLEARGH* and you have the formula all down your shoulder and upper arm and part of your chest? Well, when my kids did that, I always thought, “Well, at least it’s not a kilo of lasagne and a bottle’s-worth of cheap Chianti.”