“You say it’s your birthday!”

It’s beloved husband’s birthday today, so I feel I owe him a day of not being difficult and of actually maybe being sweet to him a little, but I’m dying inside of the need for him to call me at work so I’m actually a little fumarole right now.

But, the real truth is that I love that guy. I don’t always remember his birthday or our anniversary or how long we’ve actually been together (I have to count on my fingers up from 1997, which is easy this year, but will only get harder in the future), but I cherish being with him.

I remember our first big fight being over the word “cherish.” Aww! I’m positive that set the tone for the rest of our affectionate but testy relationship.

I tried to force him to say that he cherished me. I don’t know why, but apparently in 1997 I needed to be cherished. He was recently relieved of a very bad relationship, and he refused to say “cherish” because he said it sounded so … gosh, what did he say? Something like it sounded too possessive and controlling, which was what he had just escaped.

Or maybe it was “devotion” we fought over. Maybe he wouldn’t tell me he was devoted to me. That seems right. (I don’t even remember his birthday, so recounting our first big fight isn’t something I’ve actually put a lot of work into remembering.)

You know what I do remember? Our first “date.” I was twenty years old, and I had never been to a liquor store. I thought it was like a bar where they checked your ID as you entered, and that I couldn’t get past the bouncer since I was under age. The liquor store seemed like a mysterious, sacred place, where I was sure that there had to be more than Killian’s Red and Milwaukee’s Best. But I wasn’t sure—maybe that was really all there was to beer?

Matthew fixed everything. “You’ve never been to a liquor store?”

“No, I can’t get in.”

“Why can’t you get in?” he asked.

“Because I’m not twenty-one.”

“You don’t have to be twenty-one just to go in.”

My mind opened to the possibilities, like an alcoholic flower blossoming in gin. A gin blossom.

“I’ll take you. Let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, where do you live?”

And thus we began. With a trip to the liquor store. And it was true, there were more beers than Killian’s Red and Milwaukee’s Best. A whole world of lagers and ales and porters and weis and bitters—brilliant. The world of beer became brilliant. We chose a coffee beer called Silverback Ale. It was divine. The church of liquor store opened to be my place of communion.

The liquor store became our special place. Before every party we attended, we went hand-in-hand to the liquor store to peruse the wall of exotic beers and carefully select our brew for the night. Our special time together before wild college parties, we paid reverence to the sanctity of beer.

He paid; I was still only twenty, after all.