The night I met my Mrs.

Eight years ago this evening, Hot Wife and I met for the first time, at the behest of a mutual friend who for weeks had implied implicitly that ours were two personalities that would probably mesh.

To me, our mutual friend described Hot Wife as blonde, funny and athletic yet feminine.

I still chuckle at that description, because it was so right.

Athletic yet feminine.

Far better than the alternative, I suppose, which probably would have had me declining a date had she been described to me as a couch potato with a penchant for burping like a man, which thankfully Hot Wife was, and still, is not.

Yes, I am that shallow, at least as far as first dates go.

In any case, athletic yet feminine sealed the deal for me, and I finally acquiesced when The Matchmaker kept insisting that I just had to meet this girl who, by the way, I was told, was also quite into karate.

That made it official, and let’s be honest about it: he who hears martial arts also hears flexibility.

If nothing else, I thought to myself, maybe I will get a good roll in the sheets out of it.

But frankly I didn’t expect even that. This was going to be a blind date afterall, and don’t those only ever pan out in the movies?

I don’t recall who blinked first, whether I emailed her or she emailed me, but I do recall that it all happened a day or two before I flew to Cuba for a week’s vacation with friends of the non-mutual variety.

Our written encounter was brief, with phone numbers exchanged and plans hatched to get in touch upon my return.

When I got back, Athletic yet Feminine did give me a call, which I had to end quickly because I was otherwise occupied and could not fully engage in any kind of meaningful conversation.

The next day, I sent a note to apologize, and to finally make a plan to meet.

Later I would learn that my note redeemed me in the eyes of the woman who would go on to be my wife. Seems she took my inability to talk the night prior as the ultimate brush off, and therefore was ready to do the same with me, until I sent her that note, that is.

So we made a date.

April 27, 2003, eight years ago tonight.

Almost immediately, I knew this one had a chance: Athletic yet Feminine’s only prerequisite for dinner was that we eat somewhere within view of the TV so we could watch the hometown Senators battle the Flyers from Philadelphia in second round Stanley Cup Playoff action.

The chick digs hockey. Before we even met, she already had a point scored in the pro column.

For my good fortune to continue, Athletic yet Feminine’s looks would have to score again upon our first encounter, which we decided would come at the front doors of the Chapters bookstore downtown—where we almost didn’t meet at all.

Seems our interpretations of front doors differed.

Whereas I properly stood and waited in the agreed upon place, Athletic yet Feminine did the same at the store’s back entrance.

So while six o’clock came and went, nobody matching my blind date’s description did the same.

After about ten minutes, I gave her a call.

“Where are you?”

“I’m waiting for you at the front doors.”

“Really, because I was at the front doors and didn’t see you. I’ll go back down again. What are you wearing?”

“Jeans. White shirt. Beige jacket.”

“Ok, I’ll see you in a minute.”

I went back down to the front doors, where still I waited, closely examining every girl that walked in my general vicinity, looking for one wearing jeans, a white shirt and beige jacket.

Nobody.

Nobody.

Nobody.

Then I spotted one. Jeans. White shirt. Beige jacket.

And sneakers.

SNEAKERS!

Who the hell wears sneakers on a blind date.

I hope that’s not her.

I hope that’s not her.

I hope that’s not her.

Ms. Sneakers walked by me as if I wasn’t even there.

It was not Athletic yet Feminine, thankfully, because if there is one fashion faux-pas that doesn’t sit well with me, it is sneakers and jeans on a girl, hot or not.

Yes, I am that shallow, at least as far as first dates go.

Having dodged that bullet, I was also still without a blind date. Had Athletic yet Feminine been as shallow as me, and sprinted the other way on account of what I was wearing?

Only one way to find out. I called her again.

“Where are you?”

“I’m still at the front doors.”

“Are you sure? I was just down there. How about we meet inside the store, at the foot of the escalator instead?”

“O.k. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I hung up the phone and made my way down the escalator. As I neared the bottom, she turned the corner and I knew it was her.

Athletic yet feminine.

Check.

A cursory glance at her feet revealed no running shoes, but swanky high-heel boots instead.

Double-check.

I gave her the obligatory once-over, inconspicuously of course.

Shiny long hair.

Beautiful smile.

Nice rack.

This one’s got potential.

Finally, we introduced ourselves and were on our way.

The rest of the details need not be repeated here, except to say that we went to The Keg Steakhouse for dinner, and inexplicably both had chicken.

Then it was drinks at the Hard Rock Cafe, after which we sealed our evening with the obligatory kiss under the stars.

Later on I would describe Athletic yet Feminine to my folks as the female version of me. Eventually I would learn that she used the exact words in her description of me to her parents.

We could not have been a better match.

We could not BE a better match.

Six months after our first encounter, we were living together.

Just over a year later we were engaged.

Within less than two and a half years Athletic yet Feminine became Hot Wife.

Three years later we had The Eldest.

Four and a half years later The Daughter Formerly Known as The Latest Addition.

And within just over six years of that starlit kiss in the pale moonlight, The Final Addition joined our ranks.

We have come a long way, Hot Wife and I, but are probably right where we imagined we would be by the time we went our separate ways on that first night, Sunday, April 27, 2003, the night I met my Mrs.