My aunt was very smart, very funny, and very blunt, but not in the share-about-your-feelings kind of way. More in the "ok, it's time for you to go home now, I'm tired of talking to you" kind of way. Once when I was staying at her house she turned off Rags to Riches right in the middle and said, "That's enough TV for you." WHAT?!
But anyway, one Sunday I walked her out to the car and at the door, I said, "You're walking really well, you don't actually need me to walk you out here."
"I know," she said.
"So why do you want me to do it?"
"Because I love you!" she said, and gave me a whack on the cheek, "OK?"
That was the first and only time she told me she loved me.
She passed away in June 1997. I took her car up to college in the fall. It was light blue, and it had a bench front seat, so I could fit six people in the car with seat belts, which made me a popular driver. The car was old, but it didn't have a lot of miles on it because my aunt only ever took it to church or the store.
Once my friends and I drove up to this truck stop diner that was open 24 hours and basically the only option for excitement when you're at school in central Maine and you don't drink alcohol. As we were getting out of the car, a young guy getting out of his car stopped and pointed to the Colby College sticker I had on the back window. "You guys go to Colby?" he said.
"Yeah...." I said.
"I thought all Colby kids drove Beamers and Benzes!" he said, looking admiringly at us.
"Not this Colby kid," I said.
"That's awesome," he said, and then knelt down in front of me, "YOU'RE awesome. Will you marry me?"
Midnight, late 90s, at a truck stop in central Maine, while I was wearing sweatpants -- my first marriage proposal. I said no.
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