This is how it all started: we were in an ice rink. We were skating around, perhaps ten of us, all from the same hall in the Middlebury dorm. Greg was appealing to me, his smile was wide, he was generous, and funny, and fair. Never had I thought past that, though. And then, as we glided around, and around, and around, somewhere on the ice a little girl lost her mitten. Greg saw this, the little red mitten, alone on the ice, and he picked it up. He skated (with the kind of grace that only a Canadian hockey player could have) around the ice, his feet crossing and floating beneath him, his eyes scanning, until he saw the bare hand: it was a small girl, seated in a stroller, her mother pushing her.
But my dear, sweet Greg did not just kindly stop the mother, and hand her the mitten, no. He shhusshed to a sudden stop, knelt on the cold, hard, ice, and put that mitten back onto that child's hand. I watched, in awe. He was nineteen. I said it out loud, to myself, to the ice, to the cold, misty air around me: I am going to marry that man.