Okay, since my last many posts have been serious downers, I thought I’d write about something positive.  And since the Day of Hearts and Yummy and SexyStuff is fast approaching, I thought I’d write about the person who brings all these things to my life and, coincidentally, asked me to marry him on that Day of Days five years ago.  After I clued up and realized what he was asking, I said “yes.”

Anyhow, here is the Tale of How We Kinda Met Several Times and Eventually Started Dating…

{cue swelling harps…}

It was seven or so years ago.  I was a single mom and solo parent for over five years.  By the time I moved to the Grand Ol’ South, I had been on exactly one-half of a date in all that time.  I say “one-half,” because I didn’t realize it was a date until the very end, when my son’s pediatrician leaned over with the kissy-face.  Yes, that was exactly as awkward as you might imagine.  And as I leapt out of the car and rushed inside to my insurance handbook to look for a new pediatrician, I realized that I had just been on a date — or, more accurately, Dr. Kissyface had been on a date.  Not me.  So yeah.  One-half.

Anyhow, I had moved to the South and, odd shoe that I was, was immediately barraged with well-meaning attempts to mate me up.  One fateful eve — the day before my birthday, actually, I finally agreed to go out with some fellow lady-lawyers.  Two true and funny things about this:  first, this was the first time I had ever left my son with a sitter to go out just for the sake of having fun.  He was FIVE.  Let that sink in for a minute…  And second, these three lady-lawyers whom I barely know would eventually become my three best friends; seven years later, we are closer than sisters.

So, my dear friend Daisy suggested we go to X club to see her favorite local band.  A couple of beers in and Daisy, SG, and Sunshine start asking me what kind of dude I was into.  In an effort to be polite while rendering the prospects of a set-up impossible, I pointed to the Dude rocking the guitar and said “that guy.”  Which, while true — because who isn’t into hipster-nerd guitar players who sing like they’ve made a deal with the devil and sport horn-rimmed glasses? — was not exactly something that would ever happen outside of a movie starring John Cusack. *ahem*

The funny thing?  About a month before I moved down here, my dad sent me a clipping from the local newspaper of an interview with some dude who worked at the local university by day and a philoso-rocker by night with an attached Post-It informing me that Dad had found “the perfect guy for [me]!”

Yep.  Same Dude.

And, as it turned out, Daisy actually knew the Dude.  So of course this became a “Cause” with the ladies.  We went to see his band a few more times over the next year; every time Daisy would see if I was willing to be introduced and every time I would flee the scene before such a thing could take place.

Fast forward almost a year.  I allowed my local barrista to engage in a little match-making with some random fellow.  No, this was NOT with the same Dude.  Random Fellow was one of those older, creepy, “take care of you” types who spent the ENTIRE lunch staring hungrily at my breasts.  Seriously — I’ve breastfed 3 kids and I KNOW what a hungry-for-boobie face looks like.  I was so irritated that my return to dating involved such a jackwagon.

So when Daisy called me to see if I wanted to go see the Dude’s band that weekend (one year and one day from the original sighting), I said yes.  I figured it would cheer me up.  Plus, it was my birthday.  But, as always, when Daisy tried to introduce us, I was unavailable.  But this time, the thought of an introduction stuck in my mind.  After thinking about it all weekend long, I asked Daisy if she wouldn’t mind “pimping me out,” so to speak.  I didn’t expect anything to happen — really, the Dude was probably group-dating a posse of skanks, but it was still a nice thing to dream about.

Imagine my surprise when a few days later the Dude emailed me.

We emailed back and forth for several weeks.  Eventually we had our first, real, big-girl Date.  It was a whirl-wind evening of Indian food, Indiana Jones, eggs over medium, and a late-night make out session.  In the parking lot of a lube joint.  In the rain.  Yeah.  That’s how you date, motherscratchers.

Both of us being older and encumbered with all sorts of baggage, we had a few minor near-misses.  Such as the imaginary pleated-front khakis.  And scary Lawyer Prom.  But really?  I think we both new from the beginning — maybe even the first email — that this was Something.

And now, 6 1/2 years, a marriage, an adoption, two births, a campaign, and god-knows-all-kinds-of-craziness later, we are still smoochy-woochily, make-you-ill, get-a-room, in love. Big L Love.

I never wanted to get married.  I never thought I had a soulmate.  I never believed in a thing called love.  Until I met my Dude.  I can’t imagine life without him — I can’t imagine me without him.  He keeps me sane, calm, safe, inspired, excited, content, hopeful, creative, aroused, comforted, amused, intrigued, and happy.  He keeps me loved.

And because I believe in him, I believe in Love.