THE GREAT JELLYBEAN DATE

Some of the deepest, most meaningful conversations Jet and I have happen at night when we're lying in bed, my head resting on his chest.

We talk about life, our future, things we've been through, things we dream about, and occasionally something so completely fucking ridiculous that I wonder how we've managed to function as adults for this long.

It's honestly my favorite time of day.

Just the two of us, wrapped up together, talking about whatever pops into our heads.

Well, three of us. The Sugar Bear is usually lying sideways across the bed like a 140-pound bag of cement with separation anxiety, leaving us approximately six inches of mattress and a prayer.

Anyway.

The other night, while lying on Jet's chest, I asked him what I thought was a perfectly normal, romantic question.

"Babe, what would be your ideal date?"

Now, I'm expecting something relatively standard. Maybe dinner somewhere nice. A weekend getaway. A romantic drive through Vermont. Perhaps something involving candles, good food, and me putting on an actual bra.

This man doesn't even hesitate.

"A jelly bean date."

I'm sorry.

A what?

WHAT THE FUCK IS A JELLY BEAN DATE?

I lifted my head off his chest because clearly I needed to make eye contact with the person who had just said this to me.

Is this some kind of code? A sexual position I haven't heard of? Something I should be Googling in incognito mode?

Nope.

He meant actual jelly beans.

Apparently, Jet likes his jelly beans separated by color and flavor.

He doesn't want them mixed. He wants to eat one flavor at a time without some rogue cinnamon jelly bean showing up and ruining an otherwise respectable mouthful of blueberry.

And I'm lying there thinking...

OH MY GOD. I FOUND MY PERSON.

While other women are swooning over flowers and jewelry, I'm getting emotionally aroused by a man who understands the importance of sorting things properly.

Be still, my obsessive-compulsive heart.

So here's his dream date.

We find a candy store with those beautiful walls of Jelly Belly dispensers, all separated by flavor.

And instead of grabbing a mixed bag like a couple of lawless heathens, we're getting a SEPARATE BAG FOR EVERY SINGLE FLAVOR.

Let's say there are 46 flavors.

46 bags for Jet.

46 bags for me.

NINETY-TWO INDIVIDUAL FUCKING BAGS OF JELLY BEANS.

Imagine being the poor employee working that afternoon.

"Hi! We're going to need approximately 92 bags, please."

"Are you having a party?"

"No. It's a date."

A DATE!

Somewhere, a manager is being called.

By bag number 63, the staff is referring to us as "the jelly bean people."

By bag number 92, our pictures are being printed and taped behind the register.

DO NOT SERVE THESE PEOPLE WITHOUT MANAGEMENT APPROVAL.

And you KNOW we'll be standing there discussing flavors like we're negotiating a hostage release.

"Jet, do you want the toasted marshmallow?"

"Yeah, but keep it separate from the buttered popcorn."

"OBVIOUSLY. WHAT KIND OF AN ANIMAL DO YOU THINK I AM?"

Meanwhile, there's a family behind us who just wanted some gummy worms and is now witnessing a candy-based psychological evaluation.

But WAIT.

It gets better.

After we've thoroughly traumatized the staff, we're going to take our individually organized jelly beans and walk down a beautiful, picturesque cobblestone street.

Hand in hand.

Eating candy.

Laughing.

This man has somehow incorporated romance, historic architecture, sugar, and a minor inconvenience to retail workers into ONE DATE.

AND I THINK IT SOUNDS FUCKING PERFECT.

Seriously. I want the whole ridiculous experience.

I want to watch him select his flavors like he's making decisions that could affect national security. I want to walk beside him carrying enough jelly beans to open a small convenience store. And I want to laugh until our stomachs hurt.

So THE GREAT JELLY BEAN DATE OF SPRING 2027 has officially been added to our Date Bucket List.

And because I'm me, this will now become a full-blown research project.

There will be Google searches.

There may be spreadsheets.

I may actually have to call candy stores throughout New England to confirm their inventory and tolerance for neurotic middle-aged couples.

"Hello, quick question. How many Jelly Belly flavors do you carry, and do you have a maximum number of bags one person can purchase before you involve law enforcement?"

Totally normal.

But here's the thing.

The more I think about this stupid, wonderful jelly bean date, the more I love it.

Because somewhere in the middle of all that laughter, while I was lying on his chest listening to him describe his dream date, I realized just how much I love the way this man's mind works.

I love that he thinks of things I would never think of.

I love that we can go from talking about something deeply personal to having a twenty-minute conversation about proper jelly bean segregation without either of us finding it remotely strange.

And I love that he feels comfortable enough with me to share even the silliest thoughts that cross his mind.

Because there's so much more to Jet than the man who wants 46 individual bags of candy. There's a man who works hard, who carries things on his shoulders that he doesn't always talk about, who has known heartache and loss, and who sometimes just needs the world to be quiet for a little while.

And when we're lying there together at night, I get to see all of him.

The serious parts. The vulnerable parts. The ridiculous parts.

The man who makes me feel safe just by wrapping his arm around me, and then five minutes later has me laughing so hard I'm practically pissing the bed.

And I wouldn't trade a single part of him.

I think about how much of life we spend chasing big moments. Fancy dinners, vacations, anniversaries, and all the things we think are supposed to make a relationship special.

But some of my favorite moments with Jet haven't cost us a single penny.

They're the quiet conversations in bed.

They're the Jeep rides we take with no destination.

His hand resting on me while we talk about absolutely nothing.

And the comfort of knowing I can be completely, unapologetically myself with him.

I spent a lot of my life not knowing what this kind of love would feel like.

The kind where you don't have to perform, impress, or pretend.

Where you can be emotional, ridiculous, particular about how things are organized, and occasionally a complete pain in the ass, and still be loved exactly as you are.

And somehow, I found a man whose idea of the perfect date is wandering down a cobblestone street with me, eating jelly beans.

Not because the candy store is special.

Not because the street is special.

But because, in his version of a perfect day, I'm the person walking beside him.

And God, I hope he knows how much that means to me.

Because if I could choose a thousand different lives, a thousand different places, and a thousand different ways to spend my days, I'd still want the ordinary nights with him.

My head on his chest. His heartbeat in my ear. The Shuggs slowly cutting off circulation to Jet's spine.

And the two of us laughing about something nobody else in the world would find nearly as funny.

I don't need a perfect love story.

I just want ours.

And if ours includes 92 bags of jelly beans, a cobblestone street, and two people who are completely ridiculous about each other, then I think I've hit the fucking jackpot.

So, Jet, we're going on that jelly bean date.

I'm going to find the perfect place. We're going to buy an obscene amount of candy, probably embarrass ourselves in public, and make another memory I'll hold onto forever.

And years from now, when we're older and probably even more set in our neurotic little ways, I hope we're still doing things exactly like this.

Finding reasons to laugh.

Coming up with ridiculous adventures.

And ending every day with my head on your chest, talking about whatever nonsense comes to mind.

Because the jelly beans might be your idea of a perfect date, babe.

But you? You're my idea of a perfect love.

Who knew the man of my dreams would come with a jelly bean sorting disorder?

Fucking soulmate material.