Amanda and I started our 5:30AM body boot camp this morning. And then I came home and threw up. No stranger to some ass-kicking workouts (oh, hello, Jillian Michaels), I was prepared for it to be...well, not easy. But I didn't wake up at five o'clock this morning thinking, Golly, I hope I get to run ladder sprints until I hork. Jillian never made me barf. But then again, The Shred was like, 20 minutes, not a solid hour of torture. I don't have to tell you that I am now keenly aware of every muscle in my midsection.
Stupid core.
What's even more torturous is that the Boy is sitting next to me on the sofa, watching football with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Do I want one of those cookies? No. I want seven of them. But there's a lot of other things I want more. Like, to not have suffered in vain at Early Thirty in the morning. See? This is what being a grown up is about! Being oh so wise - and realizing your metabolism isn't moving any faster than the plot of LOST.
I'm going to have a sharing moment and tell you that right now, I'm under a significant amount of personal stress. Some of it is of my own making, but most of it isn't and there are so many things out of my hands and I've been doing things like trying to find an attorney. I never in my life thought I'd need to sue anyone, but here we are. I feel so helpless, being trampled on by a company who has the power to put my future in peril, and that feeling makes me so freaking MAD. So, you know, if you're an attorney with experience in credit libel and all that fair credit reporting stuff, I've got a winner for ya. And a sweet, sweet paper trail.
Stupid core.
What's even more torturous is that the Boy is sitting next to me on the sofa, watching football with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Do I want one of those cookies? No. I want seven of them. But there's a lot of other things I want more. Like, to not have suffered in vain at Early Thirty in the morning. See? This is what being a grown up is about! Being oh so wise - and realizing your metabolism isn't moving any faster than the plot of LOST.
I'm going to have a sharing moment and tell you that right now, I'm under a significant amount of personal stress. Some of it is of my own making, but most of it isn't and there are so many things out of my hands and I've been doing things like trying to find an attorney. I never in my life thought I'd need to sue anyone, but here we are. I feel so helpless, being trampled on by a company who has the power to put my future in peril, and that feeling makes me so freaking MAD. So, you know, if you're an attorney with experience in credit libel and all that fair credit reporting stuff, I've got a winner for ya. And a sweet, sweet paper trail.
Did I mention I'm tweeting? Oh, because I am. Just one more way for you to have even more access to total non-importance. Rockin'!
Oh, thank god. Ken Wheaton's book arrived in the mail this afternoon! I've been looking forward to it for so long, that it's like... well, okay, you know how you get it in your head that you want a certain food (say, pappardelle al telefono) and you google your little fingers to the bone only to realize that not one damn restaurant in all of Dallas offers this tasty little number and so now you don't want ANYTHING, thank you very much, if you can't have that? Yeah, that's how I've been about this book. Because until I finish it, Half Price Books is dead to me.
The cost of life is really doing a number on my 'tude. I walked out of the car dealership yesterday after dropping my car off for an oil change, tire mumbo jumbo, and that rattle in the front end, and the estimate they gave me nearly dropped my bottom lip to my shoes. You know, on top of the nearly $500 out-of-pocket price of not having a ten-day gin hangover in my face. I told Sarah that it was like Disappointment and Desperation had a colicky baby and left it on my doorstep.You've got no choice but to take care of it and yet... the resentment! I've been saving money and being careful and having zero adventures and, pardon if this sounds a little dramatic, I feel like I'm dying a little. Compared to my former, irresponsible life this new practical one is hard on the spirit. Even those big, romantic, swoony Let's Get Married! talks have all turned into, "one day when we're out of debt and out of school and blah blah" and I can't help but feel a little bit disappointed all the time.
We're going to the symphony on Thursday. The Dork Lord has to go as part of an assignment for his humanities class and I would like to kiss his professor right on the mouth. I wish she'd specified "uber tragic Puccini opera" instead of the generic "live performance" but I'll take what I can get. Cellos!
On Sunday, the Dork Lord was busy getting sunburned on the golf course when his family called to invite us to lunch. So his mom asked me to come all by myself. And I loved it. It can be pretty dicey, inheriting family (not unlike being invited to a vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner), but I've been so lucky - none of that tofurkey crap; this is the real deal.
The cost of life is really doing a number on my 'tude. I walked out of the car dealership yesterday after dropping my car off for an oil change, tire mumbo jumbo, and that rattle in the front end, and the estimate they gave me nearly dropped my bottom lip to my shoes. You know, on top of the nearly $500 out-of-pocket price of not having a ten-day gin hangover in my face. I told Sarah that it was like Disappointment and Desperation had a colicky baby and left it on my doorstep.You've got no choice but to take care of it and yet... the resentment! I've been saving money and being careful and having zero adventures and, pardon if this sounds a little dramatic, I feel like I'm dying a little. Compared to my former, irresponsible life this new practical one is hard on the spirit. Even those big, romantic, swoony Let's Get Married! talks have all turned into, "one day when we're out of debt and out of school and blah blah" and I can't help but feel a little bit disappointed all the time.
We're going to the symphony on Thursday. The Dork Lord has to go as part of an assignment for his humanities class and I would like to kiss his professor right on the mouth. I wish she'd specified "uber tragic Puccini opera" instead of the generic "live performance" but I'll take what I can get. Cellos!
On Sunday, the Dork Lord was busy getting sunburned on the golf course when his family called to invite us to lunch. So his mom asked me to come all by myself. And I loved it. It can be pretty dicey, inheriting family (not unlike being invited to a vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner), but I've been so lucky - none of that tofurkey crap; this is the real deal.
The wisdom tooth thing went very well (thanking you all for the well-wishing and helpful suggestions). Dealing with some post-anesthesia nausea (god, that's a mouthful of vowels!) but I'd say it went about as smoothly as it could. My oral surgeon was a dream. The Dork Lord casually mentioned that it would not be pleasing to him if I ran away with my surgeon, but there's no real worry of that. Yes, he was tall, dark and handsome, but really, I was simply momentarily in love with his bedside manner. And that's not anything to base a relationship on. His nurse was also top notch. She instructed me not to do anything that requires using judgment for the next twenty four hours. And here I am on the Interwebs. Where so much damage could be done. But she meant things like driving, calling clients, cooking (stove = bad! when one is on all sorts of drugs), or caring for small children. Fortunately, the Dork Lord is not what you'd consider 'small' so we're going to be just fine.
Among her instructions - and one that she was very, very clear about - was that I was to drink a chocolate shake or Wendy's Frosty (again, she's a specific lady) on the way home. Period. You know, for swelling. And then she winked. True love forever, people.
I don't have much else to say today, but I did want to share an article Miss Tanya passed on the other day. Now, you know those stories where like, a dog will nurse an abandoned piglet? Or a fawn? I live for that shit. I will sit at my desk all teary and love the whole damn world for a good fifteen minutes. Well, then there was this. It begins,
Among her instructions - and one that she was very, very clear about - was that I was to drink a chocolate shake or Wendy's Frosty (again, she's a specific lady) on the way home. Period. You know, for swelling. And then she winked. True love forever, people.
I don't have much else to say today, but I did want to share an article Miss Tanya passed on the other day. Now, you know those stories where like, a dog will nurse an abandoned piglet? Or a fawn? I live for that shit. I will sit at my desk all teary and love the whole damn world for a good fifteen minutes. Well, then there was this. It begins,
Just six months ago, Robbie and Susan Goodrich of Marquette, Mich., were expecting their second child.
Now Robbie Goodrich is the single father of two young children as he mourns the death of his wife while some two dozen women visit his house in shifts to breast-feed his infant son.
It got me all choked up. And not just because of the terrible tragedy of losing one's wife in childbirth, but because this is how I believe the world should work - people taking care of each other, with not a single thought for what they have to gain. Please read it.
Me: I wonder what happens to her after she stops being young and pretty. I mean, for a cheerleader, she's probably already pushing the age thing. What does she do next?
Him: Duh. The same thing they all do. (In falsetto mock Miss USA voice) "I want to major in communications! Yay!"
Me: Hey!
Him: What?
Me: That's what I majored in.
Him: But... but you're good at it. It's different.
Me: Mmm hmm.
Him: Duh. The same thing they all do. (In falsetto mock Miss USA voice) "I want to major in communications! Yay!"
Me: Hey!
Him: What?
Me: That's what I majored in.
Him: But... but you're good at it. It's different.
Me: Mmm hmm.
In case this comes up at some point, the offending wisdom tooth is still lodged in my jaw (until Thursday) and that is why I am maybe just the teensiest bit cranky. Or prone to bouts of weeping. I swear, I'm trying to keep it in check, but it's like having a ten-day gin hangover. In my face. The antibiotic that the dentist promised would have me back to normal in a jiffy has done nothing but give me stomach issues (I won't elaborate), the Vicodin made me spacey and gave me menopausal hot flashes but didn't do a thing to take the edge off the pain. And so, kids, we're at the part of the story where our heroine flies to Houston for a meeting, gets lost on campus finding the building and sits in her rental car and cries because even bad guys* don't deserve to have a ten-day gin hangover in their faces.
It's also the part of our story where our heroine sits at her desk and thinks, Hmmmm, heroin. Maybe that's the ticket!
I finally sent a check off to the IRS on Friday. Wowee, does that have to be one of the more mixed emotion moments I have experienced in a while. Getting out from under The Man's thumb? Awesome. I mean, that's a really good feeing. But emptying my savings account? A little scary. The Dork Lord and I have been doing so well with our saving and our careful spending, but this weekend, we talked about me getting a second job. He's back in school, which is a second job of its own, and I feel like even the few hours that I spend watching Bones or HGTV could really be better spent toward some financial security. Freelance writing gigs aren't as easy to come by as they used to be, so I'm thinking maybe something like, Barnes & Noble. Heck, or Target Team Member. That has to come with a sweet little discount. Yeah, and khaki pants, but you know what they say about beggars and choosers.
I put my foot down when it comes to pleats, though.
* Except you, Kanye.
It's also the part of our story where our heroine sits at her desk and thinks, Hmmmm, heroin. Maybe that's the ticket!
I finally sent a check off to the IRS on Friday. Wowee, does that have to be one of the more mixed emotion moments I have experienced in a while. Getting out from under The Man's thumb? Awesome. I mean, that's a really good feeing. But emptying my savings account? A little scary. The Dork Lord and I have been doing so well with our saving and our careful spending, but this weekend, we talked about me getting a second job. He's back in school, which is a second job of its own, and I feel like even the few hours that I spend watching Bones or HGTV could really be better spent toward some financial security. Freelance writing gigs aren't as easy to come by as they used to be, so I'm thinking maybe something like, Barnes & Noble. Heck, or Target Team Member. That has to come with a sweet little discount. Yeah, and khaki pants, but you know what they say about beggars and choosers.
I put my foot down when it comes to pleats, though.
* Except you, Kanye.
Over the long weekend, a wisdom1 tooth that had previously been minding its own business decided it was high time for a little excitement up in here. At first, it was just sort of annoying. The Dork Lord and I met one of his friends out for a nice dinner and halfway through my Hawaiian rib eye (drool), I got this odd, not exactly pleasant teething feeling. Now, when my nephew was cutting some new chompers last week, we shoved a pizza crust in his chubby little hand and let him gnaw on that. But while that may have worked for the kid, I figured I'd try a more... sophisticated approach: red meat and red wine. I don't have to tell you how successful that was.
Apparently, the alcohol content of wine is not sufficient for sterilization. Who knew?
By Sunday, I had an ice pack glued to my face. Remember how it was a long weekend and how no one was open who does things like fix impacted wisdom teeth? Yeah, that was my favorite part. In the absence of proper medical care, I tried salt water, Orajel and finally, when I was beginning to lose my mind, dug through my cabinet for an old Vicodin prescription. And that's when the heavens parted and angels sang. And I walked around like a zombie extra from Sean of the Dead.
Yesterday, the dentist stuck her little mirror in my mouth, put on her You Poor Dear face, wrote me a couple prescriptions and scheduled an afternoon of fun with the oral surgeon. When she told me that the antibiotic would have me feeling "right back to normal" by today, I didn't yet know she was a lying liar, so I skipped right out of her office and to the pharmacy for my magical cure. The hopeful feeling carried on through dinner, which the Dork Lord took care of with a trip to The Grocery Store We Can't Afford. Oh, the yummy things he came home with! I immediately put a pan on the stove to heat up the gourmet green chile chicken soup.
"How's the soup?"
"Sheepy," I said, making the face I normally reserve for goat cheese.
"Sheepy?"
"The whole thing tastes like hot sheep's milk."
I abandoned the sheepy soup on the counter and reached out to sip of the wine he'd opened to go with his real-food-for-people-with-working-teeth dinner.
"Oh my god, this is DISGUSTING. How are you drinking this?"
"It's not the greatest, but I thought it was okay."
"No, it's bad. Really bad. It tastes like... dirty pennies!"
And that's when we figured out that this magical antibiotic was not only not so magical, but it made everything I ate taste terrible.
"Nooo! I'm broken!"
The Boy sampled (and by sampled, I mean finished off) the soup, which he pronounced "pretty damn awesome" and I crawled onto the couch, defeated. Without wine and cream based soups, life was *this* close to losing meaning. So as a precaution against further devistation, I'm staying away from chocolate and cheese. I just don't think I could live with that kind of disappointment.
1Question: Didn't you already have your wisdom teeth out?
Answer: Sorta. My dental insurance in New York only covered wisdom teeth that had made their wise way through the gums. They don't care so much about crowding or any of that nonsense. And me, I was in no position to elect to take the others out. So, in short, I still have two. Until next Thursday.
Apparently, the alcohol content of wine is not sufficient for sterilization. Who knew?
By Sunday, I had an ice pack glued to my face. Remember how it was a long weekend and how no one was open who does things like fix impacted wisdom teeth? Yeah, that was my favorite part. In the absence of proper medical care, I tried salt water, Orajel and finally, when I was beginning to lose my mind, dug through my cabinet for an old Vicodin prescription. And that's when the heavens parted and angels sang. And I walked around like a zombie extra from Sean of the Dead.
Yesterday, the dentist stuck her little mirror in my mouth, put on her You Poor Dear face, wrote me a couple prescriptions and scheduled an afternoon of fun with the oral surgeon. When she told me that the antibiotic would have me feeling "right back to normal" by today, I didn't yet know she was a lying liar, so I skipped right out of her office and to the pharmacy for my magical cure. The hopeful feeling carried on through dinner, which the Dork Lord took care of with a trip to The Grocery Store We Can't Afford. Oh, the yummy things he came home with! I immediately put a pan on the stove to heat up the gourmet green chile chicken soup.
"How's the soup?"
"Sheepy," I said, making the face I normally reserve for goat cheese.
"Sheepy?"
"The whole thing tastes like hot sheep's milk."
I abandoned the sheepy soup on the counter and reached out to sip of the wine he'd opened to go with his real-food-for-people-with-working-teeth dinner.
"Oh my god, this is DISGUSTING. How are you drinking this?"
"It's not the greatest, but I thought it was okay."
"No, it's bad. Really bad. It tastes like... dirty pennies!"
And that's when we figured out that this magical antibiotic was not only not so magical, but it made everything I ate taste terrible.
"Nooo! I'm broken!"
The Boy sampled (and by sampled, I mean finished off) the soup, which he pronounced "pretty damn awesome" and I crawled onto the couch, defeated. Without wine and cream based soups, life was *this* close to losing meaning. So as a precaution against further devistation, I'm staying away from chocolate and cheese. I just don't think I could live with that kind of disappointment.
1Question: Didn't you already have your wisdom teeth out?
Answer: Sorta. My dental insurance in New York only covered wisdom teeth that had made their wise way through the gums. They don't care so much about crowding or any of that nonsense. And me, I was in no position to elect to take the others out. So, in short, I still have two. Until next Thursday.
My sister makes such a pretty, happy, smart baby. And though I love him with something fierce, sometimes I wish I had never met such a fantastic kid. Because if one day my own babies are not as pretty, happy or smart, I WILL KNOW BETTER. And things will be a little awkward around the house.
Last night I got a letter in the mail from MasterCard letting me know that they were closing my account. I read the letter three times to make sure I hadn't missed something. Close? My MasterCard account? WHY?
Facts About my MasterCard Account
I have not had a late payment on that card (or any debt of any kind) in years. YEARS.
My balance on the card is like, half of the limit.
I maintain a balance but make double the minimum payment every month.
I don't use the card. In fact, I have followed a cash-only policy for nearly a year.
I am a credit card company's wet dream.
So, now that I've been denied credit, I have earned ONE! FREE! Equifax credit report. Which I downloaded this morning. And look! It's pages of "Pays as Agreed" or "No Negative Accounts." And not a single missed ior late payment for years. But then, right down at the bottom under collections, I see a defaulted credit card I never opened. In a state I haven't lived in for ten years.
In 2002, I realized that I'd had my identity stolen and went through a horrific process of trying to have it cleaned up. I thought I was successful. But here it is, seven years later, and one of the accounts I spent three months clearing off my record pops back up. When I tell you that resolving identity theft is a horrific process, I don't think you can really understand the horrific-ness I'm talking about, until you go through it yourself. Much like passing a kidney stone or driving cross country in a 1984 Ford Escort in August with no air conditioning.
These are things you have to live through to appreciate.
Anyway, I have to go through this all again. And for what? A $627 debt to the University of Utah Credit Union. And after I go through it all again, you know what happens? Nothing. One call to the lender told me that once the account is closed, it cannot be reopened. Even though I have done nothing wrong. It's closed. Fine. I don't want to use the card. But from here on out, my credit history will have the words, Closed by Bank on it. And I don't have to tell you that's not good. Other lenders will see it and go, "Eeew. Don't trust her. She's been closed by the bank! And probably drives with an out of state driver's license!"
I feel like crying. We've been trying so very hard to eliminate our debt, to save so that we can buy a home and have a family and all those others things people who didn't spend their twenties racking up credit card debt seeing the world (Costa Rica, I'm looking at you) and buying groceries during unemployment have. This? It's a setback. And I'm not really in a good place to handle any setbacks, you know?
Facts About my MasterCard Account
I have not had a late payment on that card (or any debt of any kind) in years. YEARS.
My balance on the card is like, half of the limit.
I maintain a balance but make double the minimum payment every month.
I don't use the card. In fact, I have followed a cash-only policy for nearly a year.
I am a credit card company's wet dream.
So, now that I've been denied credit, I have earned ONE! FREE! Equifax credit report. Which I downloaded this morning. And look! It's pages of "Pays as Agreed" or "No Negative Accounts." And not a single missed ior late payment for years. But then, right down at the bottom under collections, I see a defaulted credit card I never opened. In a state I haven't lived in for ten years.
In 2002, I realized that I'd had my identity stolen and went through a horrific process of trying to have it cleaned up. I thought I was successful. But here it is, seven years later, and one of the accounts I spent three months clearing off my record pops back up. When I tell you that resolving identity theft is a horrific process, I don't think you can really understand the horrific-ness I'm talking about, until you go through it yourself. Much like passing a kidney stone or driving cross country in a 1984 Ford Escort in August with no air conditioning.
These are things you have to live through to appreciate.
Anyway, I have to go through this all again. And for what? A $627 debt to the University of Utah Credit Union. And after I go through it all again, you know what happens? Nothing. One call to the lender told me that once the account is closed, it cannot be reopened. Even though I have done nothing wrong. It's closed. Fine. I don't want to use the card. But from here on out, my credit history will have the words, Closed by Bank on it. And I don't have to tell you that's not good. Other lenders will see it and go, "Eeew. Don't trust her. She's been closed by the bank! And probably drives with an out of state driver's license!"
I feel like crying. We've been trying so very hard to eliminate our debt, to save so that we can buy a home and have a family and all those others things people who didn't spend their twenties racking up credit card debt seeing the world (Costa Rica, I'm looking at you) and buying groceries during unemployment have. This? It's a setback. And I'm not really in a good place to handle any setbacks, you know?
It wasn't exactly love at first sight. But then again, this isn't exactly the beginning of the story. So let's back up.
After taking what amounted to a long time to get over a short relationship1, and having had a very meaningless and ultimately regrettable fling2, I decided it was time to cut the crap. I knew that what I wanted out of life wouldn't simply arrive one day on my front step in a gift-wrapped parcel while I was sitting on my keister doing nothing. On October 9, 2008 I blogged,
I meant it. I wasn't sure what I was going to do about it, though, beyond toying with the idea of re-activating the old Match.com account that had brought me so many quality experiences with the opposite sex3. But in the middle of all my pondering, on October 9, 2008 at 1:50PM, a woman I'd never met left a comment, offering a fix-up.
I cannot say what it was about the comment that made me open up my gmail to message a complete stranger about going on a date with an even stranger stranger. Part of me made allowances for my capriciousness by saying what I always have about potentially awkward experiences: At least it will be something to write about! Part of me knew better - the same part that knows when someone is lying to me or when Something Big is about to happen. I wrote,
Emails were exchanged, photos were sent, and a double date arranged. And on October 29, just hours after my sweet nephew was born and I interviewed for my job (a very big day), Sara, her fiancé Jaime, the even stranger stranger and I met for burgers, beer and happily-ever-after. Well, mostly.
It wasn't exactly love at first sight. But there was this feeling - one I'll never be able to describe adequately without having an explanation for how it is that the universe bends just the right way, causing the chemicals in your body reorder themselves so that all the hairs stand up on your arms and your stomach flips, and simultaneously, you're filled with a perfectly warm comfort, like curling up in your dad's worn out corduroy recliner. See, if I could explain that, I'd really be in business. But as it was, while the universe was bending away, we sat, side by side, in a booth at Capitol Pub, eating, sipping beer and talking into the early hours of the next day.
And then he didn't call5.
It turns out, he had to be warmed up for such things (he'll tell you today that he only remembers being really, really intimidated. I'll smile and roll my eyes). Sara, undeterred by the boy's shyness, set up another date - a dinner party at her home one Friday night, to celebrate my return among the gainfully employed6.
.
We went out again on Tuesday. And since that Tuesday in November, I can count on my fingers the nights we've slept apart.
"In four words, tell us about this guy you're dating."
It was early December, at our company party in San Antonio. My boss was prying. It's what he does. I smiled and rolled my left hand into a fist.
"Going," I said, as I stuck out my thumb.
"To," Index finger - that was two.
"Marry," Middle finger. Three.
"Him," Ring finger equals four.
Eyebrows around the table went up. My boss's wife leaned forward in her chair.
"You don't seem like the kind of girl who would just say something like that."
"I'm not. I mean it. I'm going to marry him if he doesn't screw it up."
"Oh, Miss Hunter," my boss laughed, eyes squinted, head back in a roar. "He's a boy. He's going to screw it up A LOT!"
I waved him off. See, it was at that Friday night dinner when my feeling turned into a knowing, and I didn't care what anyone said. It goes a little something like this (and it's an awfully good thing I'm not the one responsible for official explanations of these sorts phenomena, because this one's not going to be any better than the previous, with its bending universe and arm hair and such): There are some things you know because handily, they come with back-up material. Facts. You can know what time it is, or how far it is to Denver or how many nines go into twenty-seven. But then there are the things you know just because. No facts, no back-up. Just knowing. Some people will tell you that's how they feel about god. As for me, I simply knew I was done looking. I'd found what I was waiting for.
.
And he doesn't just make his half of the bed; he makes the whole thing.
1 You can read about that here, here, here and... here.
2 You will probably never read about that. He was awful. The end.
3 You can read about that here (and don't skip the comments). I hope that guy goes to jail.
4 Fibbing about age: it's not just for celebrities! He turns 35 this year.
5 You can read about that here.
6 You can read about that here.
After taking what amounted to a long time to get over a short relationship1, and having had a very meaningless and ultimately regrettable fling2, I decided it was time to cut the crap. I knew that what I wanted out of life wouldn't simply arrive one day on my front step in a gift-wrapped parcel while I was sitting on my keister doing nothing. On October 9, 2008 I blogged,
...it's probably time to start dating again. You know, with the purpose of not spending the rest of my life thinking only about myself, and having someone else to make the other side of the bed (seriously, that's a lot of walking 'round and 'round). If you'll remember, I made a similar decision last fall, and then opted instead to wander around Europe for a couple months, making out with college boys on study abroad. Not bad work if you can get it, but you see how far that got me. I'm still taking out the garbage every week (minus) and enjoying sole possession of the remote control (plus). Anyway, if you are reasonably tall, funny and do not intend to take me too seriously ever (and I mean EVER), please start lining up at my door. I like irises and hiking trips and I laugh in my sleep. That's pretty much all you need to know.
I meant it. I wasn't sure what I was going to do about it, though, beyond toying with the idea of re-activating the old Match.com account that had brought me so many quality experiences with the opposite sex3. But in the middle of all my pondering, on October 9, 2008 at 1:50PM, a woman I'd never met left a comment, offering a fix-up.
Sara said,
I have the most amazing and sweet friend in the world. He is 324, attractive, athletic, smart and funny. He has a great job, lots of good family and friends and is over all a winner. I would lurve to set you up. I know he would love your sense of humor and I think you could learn to adore his silly jokes and sweet smile. Maybe that's weird, but if not, email me.
I cannot say what it was about the comment that made me open up my gmail to message a complete stranger about going on a date with an even stranger stranger. Part of me made allowances for my capriciousness by saying what I always have about potentially awkward experiences: At least it will be something to write about! Part of me knew better - the same part that knows when someone is lying to me or when Something Big is about to happen. I wrote,
Okay, are we being weird (you to suggest it, and me to consider it)? I don't even care. Tell me more about your friend!
Emails were exchanged, photos were sent, and a double date arranged. And on October 29, just hours after my sweet nephew was born and I interviewed for my job (a very big day), Sara, her fiancé Jaime, the even stranger stranger and I met for burgers, beer and happily-ever-after. Well, mostly.
It wasn't exactly love at first sight. But there was this feeling - one I'll never be able to describe adequately without having an explanation for how it is that the universe bends just the right way, causing the chemicals in your body reorder themselves so that all the hairs stand up on your arms and your stomach flips, and simultaneously, you're filled with a perfectly warm comfort, like curling up in your dad's worn out corduroy recliner. See, if I could explain that, I'd really be in business. But as it was, while the universe was bending away, we sat, side by side, in a booth at Capitol Pub, eating, sipping beer and talking into the early hours of the next day.
And then he didn't call5.
It turns out, he had to be warmed up for such things (he'll tell you today that he only remembers being really, really intimidated. I'll smile and roll my eyes). Sara, undeterred by the boy's shyness, set up another date - a dinner party at her home one Friday night, to celebrate my return among the gainfully employed6.
.
We went out again on Tuesday. And since that Tuesday in November, I can count on my fingers the nights we've slept apart.
"In four words, tell us about this guy you're dating."
It was early December, at our company party in San Antonio. My boss was prying. It's what he does. I smiled and rolled my left hand into a fist.
"Going," I said, as I stuck out my thumb.
"To," Index finger - that was two.
"Marry," Middle finger. Three.
"Him," Ring finger equals four.
Eyebrows around the table went up. My boss's wife leaned forward in her chair.
"You don't seem like the kind of girl who would just say something like that."
"I'm not. I mean it. I'm going to marry him if he doesn't screw it up."
"Oh, Miss Hunter," my boss laughed, eyes squinted, head back in a roar. "He's a boy. He's going to screw it up A LOT!"
I waved him off. See, it was at that Friday night dinner when my feeling turned into a knowing, and I didn't care what anyone said. It goes a little something like this (and it's an awfully good thing I'm not the one responsible for official explanations of these sorts phenomena, because this one's not going to be any better than the previous, with its bending universe and arm hair and such): There are some things you know because handily, they come with back-up material. Facts. You can know what time it is, or how far it is to Denver or how many nines go into twenty-seven. But then there are the things you know just because. No facts, no back-up. Just knowing. Some people will tell you that's how they feel about god. As for me, I simply knew I was done looking. I'd found what I was waiting for.
.
And he doesn't just make his half of the bed; he makes the whole thing.
1 You can read about that here, here, here and... here.
2 You will probably never read about that. He was awful. The end.
3 You can read about that here (and don't skip the comments). I hope that guy goes to jail.
4 Fibbing about age: it's not just for celebrities! He turns 35 this year.
5 You can read about that here.
6 You can read about that here.
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