The Matrimonial Meet-Cute

In May, 2010, I was invited to a wedding in Athens, Georgia. The bride was my sister's sister-in-law and just the cutest belle you'd ever seen. At the time, I was residing 90 minutes away in Marietta, Georgia, the largest suburb of Atlanta and the Home of The World Famous Big Chicken.

My mom, who was living in Athens, called to see if I was attending. To be honest, it was a tossup. I had recently broken off an engagement on New Year's Eve, 2009 (side note: This was only because I had to do it before I lost my courage and not because I was planning to ruin his life AND his holiday. I know how it sounds). I wasn't sure if I felt like driving all that way to celebrate a love for the ages, you know? I was afraid that by the time I arrived, I would be a puffy-faced mess from cry-singing Hank Williams songs on the ride down. Eventually, though, I got over myself and decided to go.

I had purchased a black jersey halter dress that came with a red crocodile-print belt. The belt was killer and totally made the outfit. I couldn't wait to wear it. I also added my perfectly worn denim jacket, just in case I got cold. As I unpacked my suitcase in Athens, I realized in dismay that I had forgotten the belt. It was a fashion crisis! So, low on time and budget, Mom and I drove to the Target. I ended up with a dark denim sleeveless dress and a chunky necklace. I prayed that I would stay warm so that I would not be forced to commit a denim-on-denim sartorial faux pas and end up looking like one of Conway Twitty's backup singers.

The wedding was sweet. The bridesmaids looked like pretty lavender macarons, and the bride walked down the aisle with her daddy. At the reception, I sat with Mom and generally enjoyed myself.

I was especially looking forward to the band. My sister and I had a long history of acting like fools at weddings. Nothing too disrespectful, mind you, just “mild” deviations from classy and socially acceptable behavior. Once, we boldly and visibly raided the food table at a wedding despite the fact that the bride and groom hadn't yet made their grand entrance into the reception. (All of us had been waiting for over an hour at that point, so we figured our protest could best be mounted by eating the meatballs before they got cold. You understand, right?)

I knew that I would have fun dancing with her because we could show off our most ridiculous moves. The band was a bunch of guys in their 50s playing rock and oldies classics. When they tore into the opening chords of "Takin' Care of Business," my sister and I made our way to the dance floor. Over the course of 4 minutes, we cycled through the most ludicrous poses - jumping jacks, Richard Simmons exercise routines (which we had memorized years ago), marching in place - our typical idiotic routine. At some point, Mom got on the dance floor as well and busted out her signature "air-maracas" choreography.

After the song ended, I remained on the floor and swayed along to a Motown song or two. A man in a blue shirt slid in from nowhere and began to dance with me. He was cute - he had beautiful light colored eyes and a lean, sculpted face that made me think of Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. He was also wearing a silver-colored band on the 3rd finger of his left hand. Like, you know, where you might put a wedding band.

I was disgusted. There was an open bar at the wedding. Perhaps a random married fellow had had a few too many and lost his mind along with his inhibitions. I quickly exited the dance floor and sat down, disappointed. As I cooled off from dancing, the industrial A/C unit kicked on and suddenly, I was freezing. Resigned, I slipped my denim jacket on top of my denim dress, looking like a '70s country album cover brought to life. I was ready to leave.

The man walked up to me. He was holding a camera. "Hey there," he said, "you want to see some pictures I took of your mom dancing?" That only added to my annoyance. You could have given my mom two hours and a room full of strangers, and by the end of it, every person in the place would have known who she was. That was not a quality that I, as an introvert, shared or even particularly cared to have.

"Sure!" I said politely, and watched as he scrolled through the snapshots.

At that point, the rest of my family gathered their things, and we made our way to the door.

"Dude! That married guy who tried to dance with me also cornered me and showed me pictures he took of Mom," I said to my sister.

"Um, he really seems into you. Maybe he's not married."

"What kind of guy wears a wedding band who's not married?"

"I don't know," my sister said casually, yawning. "Maybe it's a Jesus ring." 'Jesus Ring' was our sardonic nickname for the 'True Love Waits' rings made popular by evangelical Christian youth. I considered the idea. The idea of a guy, or anyone, really, waiting for marriage...it was sweet, and quaint.

"Ok, I'll go talk to him."

It turned out that the man had parked right next to me. He asked me my name so he could friend me on social media. He also wanted my phone number.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I took a deep breath.

"So, are you married? I'm confused about the ring."

"What?" he said, and looked at his hand. A mix of comprehension and concern washed over his face. "Oh, no, I'm not married!" he exclaimed. "It's a True Love Waits ring."

What was I waiting for?

Soon we were in contact and found out that even though we had met in Athens, we lived within 5 minutes of each other in Marietta. Theoretically, I could have passed him a million times at the Kroger, but we weren't visible to the other until that night. Hmmm...it was almost like it had been planned by the Creator, the One who knows the number of hairs on our heads, before we are even born.

We went on our first date within a week. Three months later, on Labor Day, that man proposed to me, and I married him the next March.

I'm telling you this because today happens to be his birthday, but I am the one who got the gift.

July 15, 2018