I shared the story of how I met my husband on Facebook yesterday.
I wrote that post a couple years ago, but I shared it again yesterday knowing that I was going to write this post today.
And don’t worry. I’m not going to start blabbering on about how much I love my husband all the time or anything.
But there is more to the story of when we met.
That night I first saw my husband, I was initially drawn to him because he was sofa king hot.
Before I met him I had sworn off smoking hot guys. I had been badly burned by two of them, and as far as I was concerned, they were all narcissistic, self absorbed, emotionally unavailable, lying motherfuckers.
To put it mildly.
But my husband was like hot guy kryptonite. As I’ve stated many times before, he was the hottest guy I had ever laid my eyes upon.
He still is.
That first night I met him, we talked until last call, and we said goodbye when the bar closed down. I waited a whole forty-five minutes before I called him. This was twelve years ago before texting was really a thing.
We made a date for the next day, although I wasn’t sure he would follow through.
He called the next day, and we decided to go to the beach. We planned to meet at the center of the town where he lived. I’d leave my car there and he’d drive us in his car to the beach.
He hadn’t told me what kind of car he drove, and I hadn’t thought to ask. It was a small town, so it wouldn’t be hard to spot him.
Not long after I pulled into the parking lot, I saw him sitting in…
a fucking minivan.
I threw up in my mouth a little bit.
I was a single, childless, fly by the seat of my pants, partying chick.
He had told me the night before at the bar that he had two young boys and was less than a week away from finalizing his divorce.
But he did not mention… a fucking minivan.
I thought about doing a 180 and flooring it.
But I didn’t.
I had learned a bunch of other things the night before.
My future husband was a good old church-going Midwestern boy who grew up outside of Chicago.
At the time, I was totally out of control. And he was in control.
He rarely drank, had never smoked, and well, you know, there was the minivan.
I was out on the weekends going to bars, doing shots, and smoking a million cigarettes a night.
While he was home watching Peter Pan with his boys, I was nursing a hangover and watching Real World marathons in my condo.
He was like the anti-me.
He was intriguing. Especially with that damn car.
So that first day we went to the beach, we just spread out a blanket, lay down on it, and talked.
Okay. We might have made out like teenagers for a little bit. Or a lot.
But mostly we talked.
That’s when I learned he ended up in Connecticut when he was nineteen.
He had left college and the Midwest and come to the East Coast to, um…
So the World’s Hottest Guy was a minivan driving former international model who had graced the pages of GQ and Cosmo.
Who the hell was this guy?
The more I learned, the more intrigued I was.
His modeling career abruptly ended when he refused to compromise his morals.
But he had made enough money up until then to put himself through college and graduate with distinction with a degree in English Literature from Boston University.
And now he was a master carpenter.
This guy was hot. And smart. He was well educated. He had traveled the world. And he could build really cool shit. And he liked to bake chocolate chip cookies with his four-year-old son.
We were clearly very different, and it was those differences (yeah, and the fact that he was the WHG) that attracted me to him.
This dude was not like the other (not nearly as) hot guys that I had sworn off before I met him that night in a bar.
In fact, he wasn’t like any guy I had ever met before.
I told you there was more to that original story of how we first met, didn’t I?
And there is still more. A lot more.
Maybe someday I’ll write a book.
Until then, I thought maybe you’d like to read my husband’s book, Nineteen.
There’s much more to his story. And I don’t know how he does it, but he turned the first nineteen years of his life, including how he ended up being a sought after model, into a novel.
And it’s good.
Here’s an excerpt:
I remember being sad as far back as nursery school, getting hit in the eye with a curved two-by-four by a bully, waiting in the office at the desk by the window, large chunks of ice held together by a wet towel pressed against the cut below my right eye, blood staining the white towel. The bone-deep cut stung and the bone seemed to throb each time my heart pumped more blood through my veins. All I could think about was not getting blood on my shirt and pants. My face hurt good and the ice burned with a dry coldness. In a strange way I found myself liking the pain, as if it were a friend. The pain made me feel. I liked the warmth of the slow flowing blood and the fire in the twin gashes that were just below my eye. Mrs. Ridley told me in her fairy voice that I needed to get stitches right away.
I knew without asking that Mom would never take me to a doctor to get stitches, no matter how bad the cut. From that point on I knew that I could count on pain and disappointment to be a big part of my life. Happiness became a fairy tale, a unicorn that did not exist; it was something I decided to stop chasing when I was ten years old, leaving me to live cold and alone within my mind. I watched the world from a place that was mine alone, a place unreachable by those who thought they knew me.
~ Chapter 20, Nineteen
I know. Now that you read the excerpt, you want to find out more, don’t you?
Well, since I married him, you’re gonna have to read the book.
It’ll answer some of your questions. And there’s a good chance it might even leave you with a couple more.
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