Sometimes, 82nd Time's The Charm

Years ago, before I was thinking about boys or marriage or eternity, a woman told me that I should go out with at least 100 different boys before I got married.  She admitted that she also had been challenged to do that, and--while a hundred had seemed a bit high--she had worked to go out with at least fifty.

At this time, I still had a year or two left before I would even go on my first date (a double date where I went bowling with my brother and one of his friends), but I seemed to think it was a great idea.  I could keep a record of all my dates--first to make sure I went on lots and lots and knew exactly what I wanted when I got married and didn't just run out and marry the first person to come along, and second to have as ammunition in case I ever needed to show my husband all the people I could have married and didn't.  (Don't worry, I wrote that at the beginning of the notebook where I planned to keep track all those years ago.  I know.  I was pretty awesome.)

It didn't hurt that by this time, my grandma had already started in on her "marriage talks," in which (contrary to what you might be expecting) she informed me that college would be full of boys who would think they wanted to get married, but that I should pay no mind.  After all, I had my whole life to be married.  And not that marriage was bad, because it wasn't, BUT....

And so, starting with that funny double date UNO bowling at age sixteen, I began to keep track.  For each "real date" I went on (you know, the kind where the boy knows he is on a date--like he actually asked you using the "date" word and picks you up and pays for you and all that), I wrote down who I went with and what we did.  I listed their age and home state.  I made note of whether or not they'd been a blind date or actually asked me out themselves.

Time passed and the list stretched on.  Every time I would go home to visit my grandparents, my grandma would ask if I was dating someone.  "No," I would reply, a little sadly.  "Good!" she'd say.  "There is plenty of time for that.  Finish your education."

And so I did.  I graduated from college.  I started working.  I watched my list of dates get longer and longer.  I began to think more about quality than quantity.  As time went on, people stopped sighing, "Oh good," when they heard I wasn't dating someone and started saying things like, "You know, it only takes ONE."  (Yes, thank you.  But it still takes one!  I wanted to scream.)  Or, "You know what the problem is?  You're being too picky.  Is that it?  Are you going for the wrong type of guy?  You just need to find someone average.  Nice, but very average."  (Few things are worse than being told that with what you have to offer you are clearly setting your sights too high.  Thanks.  Thanks a lot).

The more time went, the more people tried to "help," and the longer the list of blind dates got (which actually did wonders for my numbers on the list to 100).  Some of them were very nice.  A few of them I would have dated.  But mostly, they were just other "old" people who were still single too.  Which, really, what more did I need?  I mean, do you see why people thought I was so picky?!  I was single, they were single, I was "old," they were "old"....What more did we need?!  Gosh!

After a few experiences that convinced me I just may be one of those "star shaped tupperware" who didn't have a "type," I was just about resigned to stop altogether and just buy a dog.  (Golden retriever, in case you're wondering.)  It was during that time, that I decided one night to go to yet another activity (I was going alone) at which I decided I would stay approximately ten minutes.  Long enough to convince myself I was a good person for going and not feel guilty, but not so long that I'd actually have to have it get awkward.

As I sat down at a park bench to eat some watermelon, I noticed a new person across from me.  Thinking of my resolve to be better about communicating in person, I sucked it up, took a deep breath, and (after mentally telling myself I was a good person and I could talk to strangers and really, it probably was the right thing to do), introduced myself.

The guy's name was Paul and we must have talked for a few minutes before I gracefully ditched the activity and rushed home to sink back into my safe couch at my own apartment.

I was surprised later that week when Paul called to ask me to a movie (with a big group, of course).  Due to several circumstances that had very little to do with Paul, I decided not to go.  After all, I told my roommates, it wasn't a date.  He didn't specifically ask me.  It was a "group activity."  And if other plans came up, the group would be just fine without me.  I wasn't obligated to go.  (Little did I know at the time, the entire thing had been set up just as a way to get me there.  Sneaky, Paul.  Very sneaky).  And so, I planned not to go.  Until a friend texted me, specifically asking me to come.  "Don't leave me alone.  You have to come."  You know me.  I'm a sucker for that kind of thing.  I never say no.

And so, my roommate and I went.  She sat next to him and talked to him.  I sat by a very nice girl I didn't know.  Right after the movie, my roommate and I jetted out and went home.

However, Paul must have felt like a group movie bridged whatever social gap was needed in order to make it kosher to then ask me on an actual date, because ask me out he did.  It caught me off guard when he asked me to come over.  I told him I could only stay an hour.
Which is exactly what I did.
("She hates me," he thought.)

I guess he decided I was worth one more chance, so he texted me one day from work to see if I would drive down to the Manti Pageant with him that night ("It is a long way to drive alone").  Of course, it was a day I didn't have my phone, so I didn't get the message until nearly six o'clock that night.  Feeling a little guilty (mixed with panicked at the idea of spending hours trapped in a car with someone I barely knew), I simply texted back, "Sorry, I just got your text.  Have you left yet?"  which he took to mean, "YES!  I would love to go on a date with you!  I am ready whenever you are!" and he responded, "Great!  I'll swing by and pick you up after work."  ("What am I supposed to do?  I never even said I would go!"  I yelled to my roommates.  "Talk about 'assume the sale!'")

I figured that three hours in a car with someone would either seal the deal that I should never see him again or give me a pretty good sign that they at least there was potential.  And so, after a well-more-than-three hour date that included lots of "adventures" (calling my mom, for instance--like I said...I'm pretty awesome), I actually wanted to see him again.  As surprised as I was right then in my life, it was a pretty good surprise.

And so I did see him again.  From then on I saw or talked to him every day.  For hours.  We talked about everything from our families to our favorite books to stupid things we had done as kids to religion to politics to education to medicine to the fact that I'm cheaper than a dollar store to what makes us laugh.  And we had fun.  We went geocaching and to new restaurants and to plays and watched football and cooked and went kayaking and went to a rodeo and ate an elephant ear and watched a meteor shower, and hiked and mostly just enjoyed the fact that it was summer.

Gradually, throughout this whole thing, I realized that something was different about this experience.  When I was with Paul, I was still me.  My real self.    And I found there was someone on the planet who liked that.  Who liked me.  Not only that, but I found I could be with him and not get tired of him.  I had someone I could tell anything to.  I'd found someone who took care of me and made me want to be better.
(I'm sorry.  For those of you who get ill and tend to throw up in your mouths, I'll stop.  I really will.  Believe me, I know.  Sometimes there are few things grosser than love.  Bleh!)

So, one night we started talking about the M word.  You know...The M word?!  Yep.  And I decided (after a few weeks of thinking it over) that I really did want to marry this boy and keep him around forever.

"That was fast!"  people always say.

Yes.
Yes it was.
Very fast.
WAY faster than he originally expected.
Faster than even I expected
(and I was pretty sure I'd seen enough to know it when I saw it).


But as I began to panic (while thinking about what everyone would say), I realized something about myself.  In the almost decade since I left high school, I have lived in 3 states and 2 foreign countries.  I have worked in 8 very different jobs.  I have lived in 14 different apartments, had 54 incredible roommates, and been out with 82 different boys (Sigh.  I guess I never did quite make it to 100.  Oh well).

I would say, based on my experiences, I have gotten the chance to know myself and what does (and doesn't) work for me pretty well over the last nine years.  (Not that everyone needs to take nine years of soul searching, but I guess that was the way I had to do things...)

And so, call me crazy, but for whatever reason, this time it's just different.  Anyone who can get me to say the word "marriage" is living proof that something is different--in a very good way.  I'm not scared anymore.  I don't want to throw up at the thought of love.

So, that being said, how did he propose?  Well, (for those of you starting to feel like that pumpkin, skip this part and be done) he had told me he was working until 9:00 pm all week long.  Knowing that, I had made other plans.  The night he proposed, I stayed at work until 6:30 pm and caught up on all my piles of grading.  I came home long enough to have a little to eat and was on my way out again when his roommate knocked on the door and delivered a card.  It was a note from Paul, explaining that he knew we wouldn't get to see each other much this week, so he had a surprise for me.  It was obvious it was some type of scavenger hunt.

Now, any NORMAL person would have thought, "Fun!"  and gone to find the first clue.  Instead, I exclaimed to my roommates (who apparently knew what was going on), "I'm supposed to be meeting my friend for Institute.  Should I go?  Oh...but what if he's proposing?!  I didn't even get ready today.  I'm in ugly teacher pants!  If he is proposing, there could be someone in the bushes taking pictures!!!"

I ran upstairs, changed clothes, tried to fix my hair and makeup, and threw in a load of laundry (Sure, why not?  As long as I was near the washing machine...)

THEN, I went on the scavenger hunt.  It led me to all our spots--where we first met, our first date, where we had our first kiss, the spot we first said "I love you" (thank goodness he didn't propose there!  The place was crawling with jr. high kids who were doing some type of service project), and ended at the place we went to see a play for my birthday.

It was an outdoor amphitheater, and as I approached it in the darkness, all I could see was the glow of candles.  I began to walk up the stone steps lined with candles and when I got to the top, saw a balcony with lights, a table set beautifully, and flowers.  Music was playing and--of course--Paul was there.

I won't go into all the details, but it included what every good proposal should: a good down-on-one-knee asking, complete with a ring (Not just any ring.  THE ring.  The one I really, really, really wanted.  The one with my grandma's diamond in the middle.  The one I have had at least two nightmares about not getting.  The one that I had to look at before I told him that I would marry him.  Ooops...).

The best part is that the diamond is from the grandma from the beginning
of the story who wanted me to find myself and then get married.
Once I finished college.  I think she'd be proud.  :) 

It didn't hurt that there was some food involved, and that the chicken was not only stuffed, but also wrapped in bacon.  ("Bacon?!  I LOVE bacon!")

So, there amid the trees and flowers and stars and music and perfect weather and three hundred candles, I said yes.

After all....
Sometimes 82nd time's the charm.  :)