Your Father…

I am 15 minutes late to my first date with Chris. Not for the usual reasons; I actually should have been early. I am late because I drove past the bar twice and got stuck behind a bus when I turned around… all because I didn’t want to admit I have never been to this popular bar before. It’s been four months since I moved home and I am not about to admit to my new date that JD Salinger would call me antisocial. As usual, I’m off to a promising start.

Late and embarrassed, I give myself a football-movie-pep-talk as I cross the parking lot. With one last victory grunt-and-flex, I march through the door and stride right up to the guy sitting alone at the bar, chatting with the female bartender.

He stares at me blankly as I stick my hand out and introduce myself. The bartender comes over as I continue to stand there with my hand out, insisting that this man (who has already turned back to his beer) is Chris.

We’re all just standing there saying the same words with no improved understanding when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to face someone who looks much more like the profile picture I had been talking to for the past few weeks; he is gesturing to the table next to the door where he has clearly been waiting. It turns out I had amped myself up so much that I failed to look around the bar before striding right up to the bartender’s boyfriend who is keeping her company until her shift ends.

Boy do I know how to make an entrance.

After that point, however, the date passes in a pleasant, easy blur. We breeze through the usual topics (family, work, summer plans, etc.), but also carefully debate politics and discuss history without giving too much of our personal beliefs away. I’m relieved to hear that he’s in a band part-time while teaching full-time. I immediately decide to wait at least a month before he knows anything about my taste in music and at least a year before he can see the full contents of my iPod (no one in their 20s should have that much Disney).  What feels like ten minutes of talking turns out to be three hours.

As we walk through the dark parking lot, Chris asks when he can see me again and gives me a confident, gentle kiss on the cheek.

****

Kids, there’s something about a guy asking when he can see you again that says just what you want it to. It’s not about the good time he had (although that’s implied) and it’s not about moving along in the process. He just wants to spend time with you again. What more could you want?

It turns out… nothing. Apparently I really screwed up this blog by ACTUALLY meeting your father. Every date after that point ended with the exact same feeling: when can I see you again? There are plenty more stories of how I very nearly screwed it all up (that I’ll probably share on here… I can’t shut this thing down!) but somehow Chris has always wanted to see me again. This weekend, he asked me to marry him and I am happy to officially announce: this is how I DID meet your father.