HoboBaby

In just a few days Kevin and I will have been married for seven years, together for eleven in September. In order to commemorate the amazing fact that neither of us has given up on the other’s stupid ass I would like to take a moment and tell you our story.  Let me start at the “official” beginning of “us”.

We went out on our first “official” date on Saturday, September 12, 1998.  In a decision that will go down in history as one of the WORST IDEAS EVER, I had my hair cut a few days before.  It was the start of my senior year in high school and I wanted a change.  I asked for the bob haircut like Cameron Diaz had in There’s Something About Mary (which I had seen at least twice that summer.  I guess a penis getting zipped up in the pants just never gets old).  I ended up with the hair lovechild of Kinicke and Rizzo from Grease.  Yes, it was that bad.  No, there are NO pictures from the entire senior year I spent growing it back out.

Back to our story.  It was our first date, and I had bad hair.  In order to downplay the manliness of the cut I had the brilliant idea to wear the delicate and smart ensemble of – wait for it – khaki pants and a white, long sleeved button down shirt.  Tucked in.  With brown loafers.  Did I mention the really bad hair?  I know, you can’t believe that this story ends in marriage but it does.  Keep reading.

So we ate at Magic Time Machine and I think I had the fried shrimp.  I actually can’t remember what we did between the dinner and the end of the date because my stomach was full of butterflies the size of boulders.  If I could remember in accurate detail anything we had said or thought that night I’m sure it would sound something like this:

Oh my God.  I’m on a date.  Like, a REAL date.  With Kevin Welch.  I wonder when he’ll kiss me tonight.  What if he doesn’t kiss me?  Is it because of my hair?  Shit my hair is bad.  Oh God he keeps saying it doesn’t look that bad.  Liar!  Why do you keep bringing up your hair?  If he doesn’t care just quit bringing it up you idiot!  Seriously!  Shut up about the hair!  Stop touching it!  What if it never grows out?  What if your hair stays like this forever?  I wouldn’t date me looking like this.  Why is he on a date with you?  He is so much cooler than you are.  Aw crap, why did I order the shrimp?  Who’s going to kiss someone with bad hair and shrimp breath?

Yeah, it would have sounded like that.  As it is I can’t remember anything we said or thought that night but I remember the end of the date quite vividly.

My curfew that summer was 2 AM.  You better believe I wasn’t going in that apartment one minute before 2 AM.  So there we were, standing outside my apartment leaning against his car.  Doing what?  Nothing, that’s what.  Just leaning against a car, awkwardly talking about nothing, elbows grazing each other, waiting for the other to make a move.  Finally it was almost time to go inside.  I’ll skip the details and just say we ended up in prime kissing position, if you ignore the fact Kevin is almost 10 inches taller than I am, thus our necks were craned in very awkward positions.

So we both lean in, arms wrapped around each other in what is sure to be the most romantic first kiss of all time, right?  A kiss that will result in fireworks and, you know, probably bring world peace or something.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“Yes.” I replied and he did. I couldn’t help it, I laughed out loud and probably flooded his face with my fabulous shrimp breath.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, pulling away and looking hurt.

“Uh, because it’s YOU and you’re kissing ME.  It’s kind of weird.”

So he tried it again only this time it wasn’t that funny.  This time it was romance and fireworks, and for a brief second my world felt right.  It was my very last, first kiss.