10 years ago today, I met the fella that I would eventually marry. It was my first shift at a new job and as I walked down the hallway to the office, I saw him squatting at the end as if to say ‘Here I am.’ His hair was draped over his eyes like a curtain and when he looked up at me, the curtain falling away, I began to stammer stuff about how I hated wearing boots because they made my feet itch. The first sparks of romance.
Throughout that first shift, I was backstage and he was in the lighting booth, we bantered and flirted (shamelessly on my part) over the head set. Already well practiced in the art of the sarcastic comeback, I recall firing back some statements that made first him and then our supervisor take off the headsets. Our supervisor, in the booth with J, turned to him and said “What a BITCH. She’ll fit in here just fine.”
At that time, I was a smoker and when the first break occurred, J and I went outside to indulge our habits. The wee lass who was also on the shift and was also flirting with J, not shamelessly, more pitifully, wasn’t a smoker. Too bad, so sad. Anyway, J and I began to talk and it turned out that one of my close friends used to date his sister. I saw J’s face close down as the mental calculations were being made. “That would make you…27?” he asked. “yup, how old are you?” “23.” I could feel the disappointment crashing around him. The funny thing was that I had very recently turned down the advances of a guy who too was 23 citing that I was not prepared to play the role of Mrs. Robinson. One may surmise that the BITCH moniker is well earned. I do have my moments.
After the shift, J asked me if I’d like a ride home. Once in his car, he asked where I lived. I exclaimed that he should take me out for beer instead. That said, with the sultry tones of the Violent Femmes blaring through the speakers, we took off. The car, according to J, was ‘shared’ between his mother and himself. We drove around from bank machine to bank machine. Finally, we stopped at a pub where J asked me to wait at the door as he had to talk to some folks. He went up to a booth and, during the ensuing conversation, complete with some heads popping up and turning to look at me and a few thumbs up, one of the fellas handed J a $20. J returned to me saying that the pitcher would be on him.
We talked. And talked. When the pitcher was finished, we went to my apartment and talked some more. At that time, my apartment was filled with my brother’s things. He had taken a trip around the world and I was left ‘babysitting’ his bookshelves, lined with bound classics and medical texts and a fantastic stereo system. I had Boddington’s Ale in the fridge and vodka in the freezer. Upon closer inspection, one would notice that I didn’t have much else in there but the odd condiment, but, to J, that meant that I spent most of my time eating out. He thought I was wealthy and he had met up with a potential ‘sugar mama.’ This illusion would last one evening at least.
That first night we talked until close to dawn. I remember asking J a question that made him cry. I remember singing songs and reading poetry by candle light. I remember feeling that he suited the stuff in the apartment that was mine. I remember wondering where, if anywhere, this would lead. That first night, we didn’t kiss. We hugged at one point which felt most strange by its not feeling strange at all. J went home and asked if we could meet up the next night after his shift. He would call me at 7pm.
The next night, at 7pm, J called. We went out. Two weeks later, he moved in. Two and a half years after that we got married. Our twins were born two years after that.
It’s hard to believe that we have known each other for 10 years. There have been great times and horrible times and all manner of times in between. Such is Life. Today could go either way. Like most days. J still hides behind curtains. I’m still a BITCH. Somehow, we muddle through.
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