John Hiatt

Before I got married, I was a list-making sort of gal when it came to love. I could whip up a “pros” and “cons” index quicker than you could say, “How was your dinner?” After I’d come home from a date, I’d cuddle up with the legal pad and the colored markers. (No wonder I spent so many nights alone, right?) It would not be overstating the situation to accuse me of leading with my head instead of my heart.

And then there was Henry.