This is a nice love story.

When I first met my husband, I was starting to come out of a tumultuous time. I had married young, and neither of us was ready. It had fallen apart in a prolonged, dramatic fashion. I came back to the city to pick up the pieces of my shattered life. I dated a little, but I was raw and vulnerable and making bad choices.

I had decided not to try to meet anyone for a while, then I met him.

We were introduced through mutual friends in the clichéd way that people meet in Chicago: In a bar, during March Madness, and again at the Old Town Art Fair. We ran into each other one more time at a birthday party. I arrived early (something I rarely do), and he was there early (something he usually does). He remembered my name (nobody ever remembered my name). We talked at the bar, and it struck me that he was nice. So nice.

Eventually, we planned a date, weeks away, because of his travel schedule. In between, we texted and spoke almost every day. Finally, we went to the now-shuttered Rose Angelis, a popular first-date location. He snuck a kiss at the bar across the street after dinner.

When I did the post-date phone debrief with my sister, I confessed: He might be too nice for me. I am not that nice, what if I am terrible and break the heart of this nice man?

She admonished: You will go on at least three dates, and you will have fun. You deserve someone who is nice, who is nice to you.

So I did, and I did, and he was, and he is.

When I introduced him to my parents, my mother liked this boyfriend of mine right away. “You seem so happy,” she remarked. “I like who you are when you’re with him.”

I had to agree.

Later this month we’ll celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary and, after all this time, he is still nice. He makes me happy, and I am a better, kinder person for knowing him, for loving him. For having him as a partner in parenting, in life. We occasionally disagree, of course, but we both tend to fight fair, which is, after all, the nicest way.

Regularly in passing, we ask each other, "Why so nice?" Sometimes I reply, "I love you the most!" Sometimes he says, "YOU!" The answer doesn’t matter, it’s all about the question. Why so nice? Because I have you, of course. Lucky, lucky me. Lucky us.

The modern world has little patience for those who are nice. Heaven help the celebrity who shows a moment of empathy, it's fodder for cruelty and criticism. Canadians and Midwesterners are patronizingly categorized as ‘nice,’ implying intellectual weakness or perhaps even a lack of ambition. There’s no longer room in contemporary politics for niceties or even general decorum. The mean and the crude and the bullies have pushed their way onto center stage, and they certainly are loud. I admit that I used to think that nice equaled boring, but I could not have been more wrong.

Don’t underestimate nice.

Don't get me wrong – physical attraction and other attributes are absolutely important. Still, it seems to me that in the list of things we think we want in a mate, nice is often overlooked.

Nice takes out the trash without being asked. Nice picks up the slack when you just can’t. Nice gently reminds. Nice loves your crazy family because they are yours, and they love you. Nice replaces the paper towels when they are empty.

Nice supports friends through good times and bad and even worse. Nice knows your strengths and helps you traverse the potholes of your weaknesses. Nice doesn't judge your terrible taste in music.

Nice is patient when you are not. Nice is early when you are late. Nice is not a doormat but effortlessly raises you up to their level. Nice calls his mother. Nice is generous in all the things that matter when it matters most. Nice makes you laugh.

They say that ‘Nice guys finish last,’ and perhaps that's true. They are probably just holding the door for you.

Happy Anniversary, my love. Why so nice?