Monday Memory: Our Story

In honor of my twelfth anniversary (June 11) I am going to
write a series of Monday Memories on how my wonderful husband and I met. I’m
not the first to do this. And if you haven’t read these other stories, I
suggest you do. I’m a sucker for a romance.

Background

The man I had been dating was smart, came from a wealthy
family, was studying to be a lawyer, and (I thought) liked by many. (It turned out a lot of people simply tolerated him because he was dating me.) In short, I
was sure this was the type of person my family wanted me to marry. Unfortunately,
over time and without my realizing it (though I certainly allowed it) he took
away my spunk, made me second-guess myself and my goals, and reduced me to a
jealous, spiteful person. I was a shell of what I once was. My friends pulled
me aside and asked what had happened? Where was the old Chilihead? My mother
lectured me about finding myself. I thought they were nuts.

Then we broke up. I
was devastated. I truly thought I was such a toad no one in their right minds
would look at me or take me on as a project (for that is what I surely was). I
spiraled into a deep depression. Although I am able to see now that I had been
struggling with depression for most of my life, at the time I was unable to
understand why I felt so lost.

Getting Out and Meeting People

My roommate took pity on me and tried to make me leave the
apartment. I finally relented and went with her to a party at her friend’s
house. That is the first time I met my now husband. He was wearing a long-sleeved oxford shirt with small orangish-red and blue paisleys. I was
certain I’d never seen a more hideous shirt in my life. (I still have it.) He
and I were both quiet and found ourselves in the living room away from the keg
in the kitchen. Rather than join in the raucous party, we played ball with the
dog.

Edited to say: So many of you asked for a picture of the shirt I felt I had to share it. Here it is.

The next week we all went to play pool and he and I were the
only ones not on a “date”. I was fairly certain I was supposed to hook up with
him, but I was not about to do it. He was nice, but I was not going to take a
pity date. We had a fun time and I went home with my roommate.

The next week we all went to Eskimo Joe’s for dinner. While
everyone else played pool, I sat at the table with FDH (future dear husband)
and watched him eat. I had to watch him eat because he wouldn’t talk to me. I asked questions, made comments, I did everything I could think of. Ocassionally he would grunt some sort of an answer. I
was certain at this point he must not like me and I was bothering him. I
went home early. (I came to realize the man does not talk during meals. Meals
are for eating, not socializing.)

Finally, the next week was my birthday and he joined our
party at Joe’s. I was turning 21. That night I drank to excess and said some
horribly slutty things to my future husband. Thankfully, he put me safely in a
friend’s car and was a complete gentleman. Although we still laugh about
portions of that night, he never holds it over my head.

We didn’t really hang out much after the semester started revving up. He would call every once in a while and invite me to a friend’s house or
over to watch basketball, but I always seemed to have a paper to write.

This is where I end this week’s installment. Next week I’ll
tell you some of the strikes the man had and why I almost never saw him again.

If you want to write your own Monday Memory, add your post below! (Make sure you link to your actual post and not just the first page of your blog. Thanks!)