Wednesday, September 21, 2011
I met Mr. Rosenberg seven years ago today. I am commemorating that big ol' deal here by re-posting the story of that meeting, first posted here two years ago. I have learned that seven years can fly by when you're busy meeting someone, falling in love, eloping, having a baby, and being happy. The happy especially, it moves so fast.
Five years ago today, I put on my first date uniform (jeans/black high heeled sandals/black knit empire waist top), flat ironed my hair, and emailed my date itinerary to my friend Karen to make it easier for the FBI to track my whereabouts just in case this was the internet date that finally went wrong. This was to be my 53rd first date of the summer. I had a system. The system involved a spreadsheet.
I had been on some second and third and even fourth dates, but it almost always only took one date to “know." Know that his divorce is “sort of almost” final (#22). Know that he was gay as a box of birds (#15). Know that he had insisted on meeting for dinner at an expensive restaurant, then when the bill came tallied up my half – the only guy ever to not pick up the bill (#36). Know that I had dated his brother - awkward (#25). Know that he had looked at my resume on Internet Movie Data Base and oh-my-God was he actually pitching an animated sit-com to me over Korean barbecue? (#41). Yes he was.
When describing the guys to Karen, I used their identifying traits to label them. (Stalker Creep. Dude Looks Like a Lady. Mom Jeans Guy.) Like an FNG in Vietnam, better not to learn their names. Due to a story he had shared with me via email, #53 was identified as Naked Drummer. I tried to reserve judgment.
For some reason, I broke many of my first date safety rules with Naked Drummer. I gave him my address. I let him pick me up. When he came to get me, I let him into my apartment. We went to dinner at Noshi Sushi. None of that is prudent behavior (including Noshi) and I do not recommend any of it.
Naked Drummer and I talked until the restaurant closed around us. When the bill came, Naked Drummer totaled my half with tax and tip. Again, I knew.
I knew he was the best guy ever.
Reader, I married him.
Labels: Mr. Rosenberg