My sister makes such a pretty, happy, smart baby. And though I love him with something fierce, sometimes I wish I had never met such a fantastic kid. Because if one day my own babies are not as pretty, happy or smart, I WILL KNOW BETTER. And things will be a little awkward around the house.

Last night I got a letter in the mail from MasterCard letting me know that they were closing my account. I read the letter three times to make sure I hadn’t missed something. Close? My MasterCard account? WHY?

I feel like crying. We’ve been trying so very hard to eliminate our debt, to save so that we can buy a home and have a family and all those others things people who didn’t spend their twenties racking up credit card debt seeing the world (Costa Rica, I’m looking at you) and buying groceries during unemployment have. This? It’s a setback. And I’m not really in a good place to handle any setbacks, you know?
 

It wasn’t exactly love at first sight. But then again, this isn’t exactly the beginning of the story. So let’s back up.

After taking what amounted to a long time to get over a short relationship¹, and having had a very meaningless and ultimately regrettable fling², I decided it was time to cut the crap. I knew that what I wanted out of life wouldn’t simply arrive one day on my front step in a gift-wrapped parcel while I was sitting on my keister doing nothing. On October 9, 2008 I blogged,

…it’s probably time to start dating again. You know, with the purpose of not spending the rest of my life thinking only about myself, and having someone else to make the other side of the bed (seriously, that’s a lot of walking ’round and ’round). If you’ll remember, I made a similar decision last fall, and then opted instead to wander around Europe for a couple months, making out with college boys on study abroad. Not bad work if you can get it, but you see how far that got me. I’m still taking out the garbage every week (minus) and enjoying sole possession of the remote control (plus). Anyway, if you are reasonably tall, funny and do not intend to take me too seriously ever (and I mean EVER), please start lining up at my door. I like irises and hiking trips and I laugh in my sleep. That’s pretty much all you need to know.

I meant it. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it, though, beyond toying with the idea of re-activating the old Match.com account that had brought me so many quality experiences with the opposite sex³. But in the middle of all my pondering, on October 9, 2008 at 1:50PM, a woman I’d never met left a comment, offering a fix-up.

Sara said,

I have the most amazing and sweet friend in the world. He is 32⁴, attractive, athletic, smart and funny. He has a great job, lots of good family and friends and is over all a winner. I would lurve to set you up. I know he would love your sense of humor and I think you could learn to adore his silly jokes and sweet smile. Maybe that’s weird, but if not, email me.

I cannot say what it was about the comment that made me open up my gmail to message a complete stranger about going on a date with an even stranger stranger. Part of me made allowances for my capriciousness by saying what I always have about potentially awkward experiences: At least it will be something to write about! Part of me knew better – the same part that knows when someone is lying to me or when Something Big is about to happen. I wrote,

Okay, are we being weird (you to suggest it, and me to consider it)? I don’t even care. Tell me more about your friend!

Emails were exchanged, photos were sent, and a double date arranged. And on October 29, just hours after my sweet nephew was born and I interviewed for my job (a very big day), Sara, her fiancé Jaime, the even stranger stranger and I met for burgers, beer and happily-ever-after. Well, mostly.

It wasn’t exactly love at first sight. But there was this feeling – one I’ll never be able to describe adequately without having an explanation for how it is that the universe bends just the right way, causing the chemicals in your body reorder themselves so that all the hairs stand up on your arms and your stomach flips, and simultaneously, you’re filled with a perfectly warm comfort, like curling up in your dad’s worn out corduroy recliner. See, if I could explain that, I’d really be in business. But as it was, while the universe was bending away, we sat, side by side, in a booth at Capitol Pub, eating, sipping beer and talking into the early hours of the next day.

And then he didn’t call⁵.

It turns out, he had to be warmed up for such things (he’ll tell you today that he only remembers being really, really intimidated. I’ll smile and roll my eyes). Sara, undeterred by the boy’s shyness, set up another date – a dinner party at her home one Friday night, to celebrate my return among the gainfully employed⁶.

We went out again on Tuesday. And since that Tuesday in November, I can count on my fingers the nights we’ve slept apart.

“In four words, tell us about this guy you’re dating.”

It was early December, at our company party in San Antonio. My boss was prying. It’s what he does. I smiled and rolled my left hand into a fist.

“Going,” I said, as I stuck out my thumb.

“To,” Index finger – that was two.

“Marry,” Middle finger. Three.

“Him,” Ring finger equals four.

Eyebrows around the table went up. My boss’s wife leaned forward in her chair.

“You don’t seem like the kind of girl who would just say something like that.”

“I’m not. I mean it. I’m going to marry him if he doesn’t screw it up.”

“Oh, Miss Hunter,” my boss laughed, eyes squinted, head back in a roar. “He’s a boy. He’s going to screw it up A LOT!”

I waved him off. See, it was at that Friday night dinner when my feeling turned into a knowing, and I didn’t care what anyone said. It goes a little something like this (and it’s an awfully good thing I’m not the one responsible for official explanations of these sorts phenomena, because this one’s not going to be any better than the previous, with its bending universe and arm hair and such): There are some things you know because handily, they come with back-up material. Facts. You can know what time it is, or how far it is to Denver or how many nines go into twenty-seven. But then there are the things you know just because. No facts, no back-up. Just knowing. Some people will tell you that’s how they feel about god. As for me, I simply knew I was done looking. I’d found what I was waiting for.

And he doesn’t just make his half of the bed; he makes the whole thing.

¹ You can read about that here, here, here and… here.
² You will probably never read about that. He was awful. The end.
³ You can read about that here (and don’t skip the comments). I hope that guy goes to jail.
⁴ Fibbing about age: it’s not just for celebrities! He turns 35 this year.
⁵ You can read about that here.
⁶ You can read about that here.

I forgot how nasty the Internet could be. More to the point, how petty some of its users reveal themselves to be.

In the end, if the only thing that comes out of this messy situation is that one company will work harder to truly serve its customers, I would be totally satisfied. But (and this is just asking way too much), if it also happened to make the Internet masses take a second look at the shameless, Degrassi drama vitriol they spew, well, that would just be something, now wouldn’t it?

The warning on the label says May Cause Drowsiness. It does not say May Cause Total Ineptitude and Clumsiness. And that bit about taking care while operating a car or heavy machinery didn’t mention one damn thing about the pantry door. But there I was, standing in my kitchen, staring down at the blood pooling around my foot wondering what exactly happened, slowly coming to the realization that, “Oh, yes, that IS blood!” and deciding I should have a seat before I found myself in even more of a pickle (see Item Nine in the list of things I want to be when I grow up).