Today E and I celebrated our anniversary. Here's the story behind the story.
Flashback: Labor Day Weekend 1979
I was spending a Saturday with my high school friend Vicky (aka Low Maintenance Grrrl). Low Maintenance Grrrl and I had been friends all through high school and had just started our senior year. We were both dedicated runners and co-captains of the track team. Our school didn’t have a cross-country team, but we trained year round anyway, running road races together in the off season. We thought that after going to the local Labor Day festival, we’d do some jogging, so we tossed some running gear into the back of Low Maintenance Grrrl’s car.
After cruising the festival in the afternoon, we ended up in the local Catholic church for its 5 p.m. service. Low Maintenance Grrrl wasn’t Catholic but she knew 1) if I didn’t go to church on Saturday night, my parents would drag me out of bed at 6:30 a.m. to catch the first mass on Sunday morning, and 2) she’d heard through the Protestant grapevine that Catholics would go to hell if they missed mass on a weekend.
Being my bestest friend, Low Maintenance Grrrl did not want me to lose sleep OR a shot at heaven, so she willingly set aside her Church of the Brethren beliefs for an hour to keep me company at St. Patrick’s. Of course, the fact that there were two all-male colleges in our town, and the Saturday night mass attracted considerable numbers of potential dates had NOTHING, absolutely nothing, to do with our decision to attend church. We were just Good Grrrls gathering up all the grace our sweet little Southern souls could hold.
This Saturday night was notable because we had a new priest and this was his first service. The church was full of young people seated in the back and this priest’s first order of business was to get us all to move closer to the front. Not exactly what we were expecting—but we dutifully shuffled a few pews forward as did two guys who were behind us who moved in front of us.
During a Catholic mass, there’s a moment when parishioners are supposed to turn and “greet one another in the name of Christ.” This generally translates to kissing the cheeks of family members, hugging friends, and shaking hands with people in the adjacent pews.
Being Good Grrrls, we followed the protocol and noted that one of the guys in front of us turned to shake hands but his buddy did not. Hmmm. That was a little cold. What was up with that guy?
After church “that guy” and his buddy came over to talk to us in the parking lot. Well actually, the buddy did all the talking. He asked us if we wanted to grab a bite to eat together (as his friend elbowed him in the ribs, channeling his severe embarrassment at attempts to pick up girls at church). Low Maintenance Grrrl and I had planned on going running at this point, but after some chit chat, we agreed to meet the two guys at a local college hangout for dinner.
Dinner went OK. The quiet guy was finally talking a bit and both guys were filling us in on their stories. S, the more outgoing of the two, was from Maine. E, the one who was initially shy gradually warmed up, and gave us some convoluted story about having been born in Africa but his family had lived in Virginia but now they had moved to Florida over the summer but E didn’t live there. Whatever. They were roommates, seniors at the local military college.
As Grrrls are known to do, Low Maintenance Grrrl and I took a restroom break and had a pow-wow over where the evening was going. We both agreed that the blond guy was cute (that was E) and his friend was OK. We decided that when we got back to the table, we’d see if they wanted to go running with us. It was dark, but we could run at the track which had lights.
While the Grrrls were in the restroom, the guys were having their own discussion. S asked E, “Which one do you like?” E said, “I like them both. They’re nice girls.” S said, “The redhead is too thin for my taste.” (The redhead being V-Grrrl and the “too thin for my taste” probably meant “isn’t stacked.” Which was true then and is true now. Whatever.) So E, ever gracious, agreed to focus on “the redhead.”
When we got back to the table, Low Maintenance Grrrl and I broached the topic of going running together. E was immediately interested. S was not. The night had clearly taken a bad turn from S’s point of view, but E convinced him to go along. So Low Maintenance Grrrl and I get into our track gear and E and S head back to their room to do the same. On the track, S drops out after only one lap. Low Maintenance Grrrl and I, distance runners, are secretly disgusted. What kind of military guy can’t crank out a few miles? S has ruined his chances of ever going out with either of us. He’s a baby.
Meanwhile E is not only cranking out the laps but is full of friendly chatter. In what has to be one of the worst lines I’ve ever been handed, he says, “So, is it true what they say about redheads being passionate?” I was floored. Was this the same guy who wouldn’t even shake my hand a few hours earlier? Geez. Being a feisty thing, I countered with my own question, “Hmmm, is it true what they say about blondes being dumb?” E loved this response. I was scrappy. Hah! He later told me he loved my spunk. The sassy attitude hooked him.
The rest, as they say, is history. E and I dated our respective senior years. He went into the Army. Low Maintenance Grrrl and I got matching scholarships, chose the same college, and became roommates as well as running buddies. During spring break of my sophomore year, I married E in a small ceremony at the church where we’d first met. The priest who helped bring us together officiated. Low Maintenance Grrrl was maid of honor at my totally low maintenance, low key wedding. S, then in the Navy, was E’s best man.
Twenty four years later, E still finds me scrappy. I still think he’s cute. And he now knows whether redheads are passionate, but he’s not telling because, you know, he’s still kinda shy.
March 7, 2006