Last night we sat at the table eating dinner. I twirled my spaghetti noodles around my fork and took a bite. Though I chew with my mouth closed, I am told I am a loud chewer so I have given myself a diagnosis of having thin cheeks. After 10 minutes of this spaghetti-twirling and chewing, Kevin said, “You know how they say you should never eat spaghetti on a first date?”

I stopped mid-chew, suddenly realizing where he was going with this. “But we’re married!” I countered.

He laughed. “It’s a good thing this isn’t our first date.”

Our first date was at a tattoo parlor where I got a cork stuffed up my nose and a needle poked through my skin. I was in my pajama pants and a hoodie and flip flops. Afterwards, we went to Chili’s where I spent dinner alternating between, “My nose sparkles! I finally love my nose!” to “My dad is going to kill me. I can’t ever go home again.” My emotions roamed full spectrum that night.

Really, spaghetti would’ve been a better option.