To begin, after six years, I ended a much-devoted, albeit bad-as-fuck, relationship. About one month into this thing I knew it was wrong. I didn’t listen.
At the urging of a friend, who met her then-boyfriend, now-husband through the internet, I signed up for a dotcom dating site.
Throughout that summer, I went on a date with a long-distance runner, a banker, a man who neither opened the door to Starbucks for me nor paid for my tea, and a man who asked me to get in his car and go to a place my friend told me about. (OK, I listened to the voice there, too).
Then, this guy, who hailed from Chicago (+), had parents who were teachers (+), liked to roll with the punches (+), liked the blues (+), gave me the wink, the nudge, the nod, whatever cleverness came from that site. I hesitated. We e-mail chatted. We progressed to the phone call. We met in public.
And as Porky Pig says, Th th that’s all folks.
To be fair, we dated. We went sight-seeing, we went boating, we went hiking, we went motor-biking, we went canoodling, we went family-a-meeting. (How’s that for parallelism, teach?) We went. And, we fit. Like every possible metaphor out there, we fit.
Now, back to the voices. We were sitting in Piedmont Park in Atlanta. It was October. There were pink-ribboned breast cancer walkers everywhere. There was green grass and blue skies.
I watched him lying there. And then, some sort of event that I have never been able to understand or explain, like a chill that runs through your body, my Self came from outside my Self, dove directly into my head and told me “This is your husband.”
Ten months later we eloped to Savannah, Georgia. The morning of our wedding day we took a walk on the beach. We had breakfast. He dressed and went for a beer. I dressed and met him in the courtyard of our B&B where we said Yep to the minister, hopped in an un-bejeweled carriage to the restaurant where we ate and drank and said everyone should marry this way.