I definitely intended for yesterday's post to be sappy and sweet. But today, now that it's not Valentine's Day anymore, I feel like I can tell you the rest of the story.
So yes, there was love, romance and uh, wine.
Perhaps a little too much wine.
For on that February Sunday morning in 1998, I awoke feeling a little *under the weather*. But my (future) Hubby? Was giddy with excitement, for it was the day of the Daytona 500! He couldn't WAIT to just hang at a bar (preferably at the Nascar Cafe, coincidentally right there in Myrtle Beach) and watch race cars zooming around a track. Over and over. And over.
(Remember, we were FALLING IN LOVE. I actually thought his Nascar interest was *cute* at that time.)
It was not.gonna.happen. My body was rebelling by way of nausea with a side of massive headache.
I suggested that perhaps we simply drive back to Charlotte. Like IMMEDIATELY.
And he, being the caring and concerned boyfriend, acquiesced.
Except, we didn't make it very far before I needed the car to stop so I could get out.
So Hubby stopped at a Dairy Queen. Where I proceeded to race inside, the sicky sweet smell of grease and ice cream assaulting my already sensitive constitution. Blech.
I made it to the bathroom just in time.
I spent the entire 3 hour drive back to Charlotte slumped over in the passenger seat with my eyes closed, trying not to moan too loudly. While my (future) Hubby listened to the Daytona 500 race on the radio, happy as could be.
And to this day? I have never, ever been able to step foot in a Dairy Queen. All I can think of is that sicky sweet smell.