Today, I’ve got nothing. No fun new insights, no current event outrage, no poor woman’s Pinterest account to tear apart.
So, I figured it might be a good time to steal an idea from some blogs that I follow and tell you all about how I met my husband, because I know you’re all just foaming at the mouth for a story just like ours. And what my public wants, my public gets.
I am notoriously long-winded. If the object of my story is to tell my husband what I got at the market, I will probably begin by telling him how long it took for me to get there and what parking was like and what the cashier looked like and what kind of stranger was in front of me in line. (My husband is a saint.)
Therefore, I’ve decided to break my grand, sweeping love story into as many parts as it takes to get right up to our wedding. I haven’t started yet, but I’m going to say this will keep me busy until at least Thursday. I hope you’re up for it!
I was a fairly adorable child who got punched in the face by puberty (figuratively speaking, of course). In the seventh grade, when I was 12, I was a size zero. In the eighth grade, when I was 13, I was a size eight. That is a lot of growth in a very short time. Ages 15 to 20 were not kind to me either. (14 was cool. Thanks for that one year of teenage normalcy, genes.) I had terrible skin, various periods of weight gain, Puffy Face Syndrome, wild frizzy hair and glasses. Literally the only teenage self-esteem killer I did not experience was braces, and that’s probably just because my grandpa, the dentist, took pity on me and didn’t suggest them.
Why does this matter? How does this factor into my love story?
I felt so out of sorts (read: hideous) as a high schooler that I had a lot of unrequited loves. A lot. I dated one really great boy for two separate years (freshman and senior years) and spent the rest of my time watching my gorgeous best friends date all the guys I harbored secret crushes on. It was all really healthy and fun for me.
By the time I met my husband, I had a long history of things not working out the way I expected.
In college, as an effort to broaden my horizons, and as a self-pitying reaction to the fact that my best friend had just joined an acapella group and was no longer at my beck and call, I attended the first brainstorming meeting of new UCLA comedy paper, The Flying Squirrel. And, in an instant, I’d found my tribe. Like all outcasts with confidence issues, comedy welcomed me with open arms. I was absolutely the least entertaining person in that room every Wednesday night, and most of my contributions were riffs on other writers’ genius, but it was so fun. Amazing. The best. It was easily my favorite part of college.
While I was having the time of my life, I was also accidentally dating two dudes on the paper. As someone who had very little experience with males expressing interest in me, I took invitations to edit articles at coffee shops or go to solo dinners at local cafes as things friends would do together, and on two different occasions, which two different people, I only realized these excursions were dates when my friends tried to get physical.
By the time I met my husband, I was well aware that my radar was totally broken.
And also that I am an idiot.
As a second-year in college, having recently finished Accutane and started up a Match.com profile (which was hilarious – I suggest that to everyone!), I was absolutely not looking for anything serious. I was dating Brazilians and older guys with money and astrophysicist doctoral candidates who smoked heroin (which is something I didn’t even know was possible until I stumbled upon him doing it one night at a party, at which point I went home and cried in my dorm room).
By the time I met my husband, I’d dated a ton of weirdoes and was, for the most part, enjoying myself.
Suffice to say that when I walked into The Flying Squirrel’s weekly meeting one night in January 2007, of all the things I was expecting, my future husband was not one of them.
And yet, there he was, sitting directly across the room from the door, in a white striped shirt with his head down, already writing notes.
In that instant, the moment I saw him, I knew. I had never seen him before, but I knew with more clarity than I’d ever known anything else that I was going to marry him. It happened in the way I’m assuming it happens to people who feel called to God or who know what they want to do with their lives. It was an immediate, totally clear, absolute knowledge of the future.
Annnnnnd then I found out he had a girlfriend. Because, of course he did.
Stay tuned for Part II, the thrilling bridge to the thrilling penultimate post to the thrilling conclusion!