As for my husband and I, we met at an airport in the Philippines in January of 1994.
He'd missed his flight and ended up on mine, and we wound up sitting next to each other at the gate.
"My husband and I had been fighting for months about almost everything — money, child care, how to spend a Saturday afternoon. His mom and dad's great love story had ended up in a divorce so acrimonious they still shit-talked each other decades later.
He called her a "wicked witch" to his children; she wouldn't acknowledge his existence at our wedding.
I borrowed his paper, a USA Today; we started talking and discovered that after our first leg, we were heading to the same city on different planes. We were living in San Francisco then, and the weekend of Memorial Day, I drove down to Los Angeles with our almost 4-year-old daughter. The two months before I'd had bout after bout of bronchitis.
He tried to chat me up mid-air, but the flight attendant made him go back to his seat when turbulence hit. Still, he tracked me down to the radio station where I worked and we moved in together five months later. My doctor kept searching for a physical reason why I couldn't shake it, eventually asking, "Is there something going on that's causing a lot of stress?
My husband's parents also fell for each other on their first date, trading thick, lovelorn letters when the Navy shipped him out.
They were engaged after just a handful of reunions shoehorned between his tours.