Do you ever do something that’s kind of embarrassing and think to yourself, “I seriously hope I don’t meet my husband while I’m doing this.”  Like, you’re kind of fine doing the embarrassing thing once, but you wouldn’t be fine reliving the embarrassing thing every time someone asked how you and your husband met.

And yeah, maybe I’m thinking about this because I went to a Dave Matthews Band tribute concert on Saturday.  (Listen, I’m not proud of it, but it happened.)  I’d put this how we met story close to “at a clinical trial for anti-fart medication” on the embarrassment spectrum.

But don’t worry about me, Internet friends.  I actually don’t need to sweat this because exactly zero people asked for my number the entire night.  Phew!