In the Beginning

My ego has been waiting for people to ask, but as it seems that anyone who comments regularly already knows me in person (and therefore, the story), and nobody else cares enough to comment or email to ask, I present to you: The story of how the boy and I started going out.

It was a rainy day in March…. (Actually, I don’t know if it was raining, but since it was March, that’s probably a pretty good guess.)

After lamenting that there were no find-able good men left, and looking forward to 10 days of tropical troublemaking, I put a strict moratorium on dating. I stopped logging on to Lavalife and OKCupid, stopped checking the Craigslist personals, and told friends who expressed interest in setting me up with other singles they know that it would have to wait until I was back from my Vacation.

Then I went and broke all of my own rules. Because the guy was great? No. Because I thought there was no possible way it could work out.

The boy (we shall call him Neil, for that is his name) happens to work with a friend of mine‘s fiancee. We’d been at a couple of the same parties before and had no interest in eachother (well, not true – I always thought he was cute, but he was also spoken for at the time).

Imagine my surprise then, when I was out for brunch with said friend and she told me that since he was back on the market, Neil mentioned in passing that I seemed like I’d be fun to date. After a bit of sleuthing it was discovered that really, Neil was a big ego hound and wanted to see if he could make it on the blog!

That all sounded fine and well. I’d let Mr. Rebound put his mad skillz to the test and score myself a night out and either a reasonably good time, or some really great content. It was win-win and really a no-brainer as far as I was concerned. We set up a date for March 16th, and agreed upon the time/place details.

I’d figured that even if the date did go well I’d have no problem putting him off for a week before I went away and could party, island style, guilt free.

Imagine my surprise then, when the date finally rolled around and we took a grand total of about eight blocks (I even remember the intersection we were driving past) before we fell into conversation, the ease of which most people only share with their very best friends. It continued on that way throughout dinner and a walk in the park afterward.

The comedy of errors that was the evening (the dancing we’d expected was not to be, and the walk in the park was a little challenging in the dancing shoes I’d worn) didn’t phase us a bit, and by the time we parted ways a little after 2am (the date started around 7:30-ish) I’d had one of the most enjoyable dates I’ve ever experienced, a few really sweet kisses, and was giddy and distracted enough to accidentally close my hand in the car door when I got home.

Good thing it went well, we were both expected to attend the aforementioned friend’s St. Paddy’s Day party the next night.

Once we’d each arrived at the party, we easily fell into that “couple space.” Without getting too schmoopy about it all, we seemed to immediately just “fit” with eachother.

The rest of that week was spent seeing eachother in any stolen moment we could find, followed by a week of offshore email novellas and a couple very long phone calls, culminating with a sweet (though decidedly un-schmoopy) airport reunion.

Since then, we’ve been pretty inseperable, are constantly amazed at how compatible we are, and have survived a long-weekend road-trip together. I even have him trained to realize that all I want in the mornings is coffee and silence, and he delivers on both counts.

Things aren’t easy (because if there’s any sort of relationship myth that needs to be dispelled, it’s that one), but they are really, really good. And after the nearly 20 months of bad-dates and bruised hearts I’ve just gone through, I wouldn’t settle for anything less.

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