My favorite Valentine’s Day memory didn’t actually happen on Valentine’s Day. Hubby and I had been living together for about six months and talked about getting married. He met my parents, and unbeknownst to me, asked my Dad for my hand in marriage, at Christmas. For a while I thought he was going to propose at Thanksgiving…then at Christmas…then on New Year’s Eve. But, nothing happened.

I thought “ah, he’s waiting for Valentine’s Day,” and all the when-is-he-going-to-ask-me-to-marry-him stress left my body. It was briefly replaced with maybe-he’s-not-going-to-propose panic, but I figured it would happen eventually, otherwise we would not have talked about it. He also said, “leave Valentine’s Day open.”

Around the middle of January, my washing machine broke. Hubby said, “you need to be home because I’m calling a guy to come fix it.” Ok, cool. It never occurred to me that a repairman coming out to our apartment on a Friday afternoon was odd. So, when the “washing machine repairman” knocked on my door, I opened it.

It was Hubby, fortified by a few beers at Hooters (the waitress ended up comping all of them, when he told them was he was getting ready to do), and dressed in his suit dropped to one knee and proposed.

We still celebrate our un-Valentine’s Day date, almost 17 years later.

Tell me about your favorite Valentine’s Day.