Seven years ago, TheMan brought me potted mini-daffodils (while my favorite flower blooms in February in my California hometown, hothouse was all that was available in the significantly more frigid New Jersey).
Seven years ago, I wore a seasonally inappropriate, but cute, outfit. I got into TheMan's car, and felt my left spaghetti strap break. I was, fortunately, wearing a jacket. I waffled between trying to discreetly fix the problem and just telling TheMan what happened and hoping he'd laugh. I went with the latter, and, fortunately, he did too.
Seven years ago, we went to a great (and potentially mafia run) Italian restaurant, where I spilled pasta all over my lap, and a big, burly man came up to our table and serenaded us. We both nearly died of stifling our gigglefits.
Seven years ago, we went for a walk through the charming Ivy League University town. I should have froze all night, given my outfit, but I can't remember noticing. I turned my ankle on a curb and I nearly died of embarrassment.
Seven years ago, we stopped for coffee and hot chocolate at a cute independent coffee shop. TheMan was hilarious and literally made my hot chocolate come out of my nose.
Seven years ago, I knew he was it.