So, two years ago, a casual girlfriend of mine was supposed to be my date for a wedding up in Bellingham. There’s no need for me to be shy about it: I’m not a proponent of marriage, so while I dig my friends being happy, and I can support that, weddings aren’t exactly my favorite thing. On the other hand, as Miz Ariel made a point of mentioning in her book, I do — excuse my utter lack of class here — tend to score at weddings, pretty much as a rule, which may well be the way I’ve found to enjoy them, horrendous as that may sound.

In any event, at the last minute, my galpal had to cancel, and I was left dateless when I really was in the mood for a date for this particular event, even if just for some committed company throughout, rather than a bump and grind. On a lark, my bride-to-be friend suggested we ring up an acquaintence of hers who was coming, figuring that we’d either really like each other, or drive each other insane, but that either way, we’d be unlikely to be bored. Plus, I like blind dates, always have: I’m always up for an adventure and a surprise.

So, ring we did, and had an immediate whiz-bang back-and-forth conversational chemistry which was some fun. I suggested we make a date of it, and the deal was struck. Said date would be male, which would have been iffy: I’d only recently found myself re-attracted to men again at that point, and it remained a rarity. However, even from the phone call, it was pretty clear I was talking to one of those fabulous dates who seemed likely to be a great date even if the whole works remained platonic, so.

It’s not a lot of people who wear their personalities so much on their sleeve that without having any idea of what a person looks like, you can tell they’re the person you talked to just by how they approach you. Such was the case with my date.

And such was our instant connection and ease that within ten minutes, when I was about to go up and nervously speak (I hate public speaking), my date knew that the rightest thing to say to me was an incredibly sensitive, “Don’t fuck it up.”

We lasted about a whole fifteen minutes mingling with others after the ceremony before we noticed we both were clearly restless pacers, and started roaming circles around the atrium, babbling away. We only lasted about another half hour or so doing that before we nicked a bottle of wine in one of our circles round, found a vacant stairwell, and save a couple trips out for more stolen bottles, spent the rest of the event talking nonstop on the stairs.

By the time the event wound down, neither of us noticing until…well, everyone was leaving, I found myself in an unusual position. Essentially, I either had to end the date there and then a catch a ride with someone so as to have a place to sleep, or commit to grabbing a hotel with my date, who I hadn’t even yet kissed, and wind up in a situation which very well could be incredibly awkward.

(This, for the record, is not like me, period. If I dig someone in thatway, or anything even resembling it, and they make it all of fifteen minutes without me just smacking them with a smooch, it’s a miracle. Hey, I love kissing, and for me, it’s not about appearances, it’s all about chemistry, so knowing I like how someone looks is never enough. This is also a chick who often won’t even bother with a second date unless I felt the need to try out the sex on the first. Of course, at least one of us has to shut up at some point for a kiss to happen, and there wasn’t even that much pause in the conversation.)

Ah, the great dilemma. That so wasn’t.

As it turned out, it was an easy call, and Mark also fielded me asking him, in large company he wasn’t familiar with, if he was fond of sleazy motels, with great aplomb. After more gabbing, more bar-hopping for gabbing, and at long last, some truly phenomenal kissing, that’s where we wound up until the crack of dawn, at which time (around 5 AM) my date had to exempt himself to drive three hours to work. And said goodbye not once, nor twice, but four times, running in and out of the door before he left.

I fell into a brief nap with a smile on my face. One that’s stuck around for the last two years.

Eh, y’all know much of the rest of this giddy tale of rather unusual and certainly unexpected romance. I suck at keeping secrets period, and while in the interest of my pride and dignity, I perhaps should not have made public much of the whole of our history, alas, it was all here in gory detail, like everything else.

Long story short, we had many more dates, albeit over a 1600 mile distance that first year, so we had even more phone calls that lasted far too many hours. Then there was a move, and since there’s been a happy shared household — something I would have sworn no one could have ever forced me to do with someone again — full of a lot of pacing, laughing, wine-drinking, snuggling, goofy dancing, whiz-bang retorts, creative woo, kissing, sex, running-in-and-out-of-the-door repeated morning goodbyes, and a whole lot of babbling.

And neither one of us has fucked it up.

For the last two years, I’ve had a partner really committed to being my partner in the same spirit I intened partnership to mean: with a very real weight, but balanced with a very spirited lightness. It’s rare a day passes when he doesn’t make me laugh out loud, and equally rare a day passes when the boy doesn’t melt my heart, challenge me (usually in the best ways, but come on, it’s been two years now: we challenge each other in the oy-you-make-me-nuts ways, too), and remind me of all the best parts of myself and how valuable they are.

Obviously, I could write a whole novel about this relationship: I already have, really. But I’ve got this date with this guy in a little bit, I’m up for an adventure and a surprise. I can assure you, we won’t get bored, and that we’ll really like each other and drive each other insane. I’m also 100% certain this time I’m going to score.

So, babe? Happy sneakerversary! I love you, love you, love you. You know already — every day, if I manage to get things across to you as well as you do to me — that I love you like nobody’s business and I (still!) couldn’t ask for a better partner or someone I loved to spend every minute with as much as I adore spending every minute I do with you. You remain, as ever and more, my great surprise, my cherished friend, my devoted family, my delicious lover, my brother, Harold-to-my-Maude, Wallace-to-my-Gromit, Mary-to-my-Rhoda, Bert-to-my-Ernie and the great, great love of my life.

filed under Heather Corinna | my fine romance
posted on Tuesday, March 20th, 2007 at 5:06 pm

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