I feel like I have been handing control of my blog out a lot this month, but when posed with the dilemma of having Jules post for me, it was a no brainer. Of course! She is one of my favourite writers ever, a good buddy and a downright funny girl. So please, take a seat, grab a coffee/tea/stiff gin (whatever your tipple!) and read a story that I for one have never heard before, but that made me smile and warmed the darkest corner of my heart. This girl is awesome. I bid you good day.
Boy, I get around. Look at me. Here on Tinkerbelle’s FABULOUS blog. (Don’tcha just love her?) I’ll try not to get too comfortable, but this background really goes with my complexion.
It’s ironic that I’ve been getting around the blogging world, because in actuality, I’m married to my one and only boyfriend. And that’s kinda what I want to talk about.
I know a secret.
The answer to the single girl’s big-ticket question:
“How did/do you know (s)he’s THE ONE?”
Let me leave you hanging back up by saying that although my husband, Peppermeister (or as Tinkerbelle calls him, Le Pep), is my one and only, I did have to employ some fierce modern-woman moves to get the ball rolling. I was 21 years old and we’d worked together for almost two years at a school for children with autism in New Jersey (where we both grew up). We were just friends, if that. One lovely day in mid-May of 2003, I hosted a small party for my friends, and Le Pep actually showed up, despite not knowing anyone in my crowd.
I made appetizers while my friends played guitars, and ‘somehow’ managed to down 5 gin and tonics throughout the night. By the time 3am rolled around, Le Pep and my best friend (who was sleeping over) were the only ones left. My friend went to put her pajamas on, and in my gin-induced haze, I was convinced Le Pep was there so late because he was completely smitten with me (…9 years later, and I’m still trying to get him to admit this).
I stretched one arm over the back of the couch lazily, watching him fiddle with his guitar on the stool in front of me.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” I asked flirtatiously.
“Er…” Le Pep replied, avoiding eye contact.
“How would you feel if I did something stupid right now?” I continued boldly, undeterred.
“Er…” Le Pep answered.
I stood up.
“I mean, really stupid.”
I placed my hands on either side of his face and planted one squarely on his lips. I couldn’t believe how right it felt. One crystal clear thought flashed through my muddled mind: This is all gonna work out.
And it did. It was a miracle. I’d been suffering from unrequited love for years, and was convinced I’d never dig myself out of that hole. With that one forward move, I, well, moved forward. Anyone else who had been in the picture faded to dust.
Now when I hear about people struggling with the dating game, all I can think is, It’s not supposed to be hard. When it’s right, it’s easy.
In those first few weeks, you should be walking on a cloud, barely able to eat. Sure, you’re full of nervous energy, because how could it be so easy? But it is.
I stopped writing self-indulgent poetry and started shopping for silly presents. I stopped asking questions like, “What’s wrong with me?” and started asking ones like, “What time did you say you’re coming over?” I stopped crying into my pillow at night and started grinning from ear to ear.
So, are you ready for it? The big answer?
I knew Le Pep was ‘The One’ not because of some cosmic sign or because he constantly tells me I’m pretty (okay, maybe a little bit of that one), and definitely not because I kissed him and immediately wanted to marry him (that didn’t happen), but because I’ve never been able to imagine life without him.
That’s it. It’s that simple.
Have you found The One? How did you know? What’s the hardest part of dating for you?