The year was 1995. John Howard had become Leader of the Opposition again, Bill Clinton was "not having sexual relations" with Monica Lewinsky and Peter Andre had a top 40 hit. It was shaping up to be quite the screwy year. It was also the year I met my future husband.
You don’t know it at the time of course. That this person you first spy across a crowded room, exchange words with, kiss shyly, will one day be your husband, wife or partner. Although some people will say that they did know. That from the very minute they met them, they would be with them forever. I can’t say that was the case with me though. In fact, I really wanted to flip my future husband off and tell him he was a complete tosspot the very first time I met him.
It was a summer’s day and I had just pulled up to the beach with my girlfriend. I immediately clocked him sitting with my brother on a seat watching the surf. He slowly gave me the once over and then returned his gaze to the surf. We walked over to say Hi. His only words to me at the time were “Would you like me to call you a cab so you can get back to your car?” I turned back to look at my Mazda 121, which granted, was parked a little farther from the kerb than necessary but certainly not smartarse comment worthy. In response to this, I asked if he’d like for me to call 1987 and see if they wanted their Top Gun Sunnies back. I was also tempted to kick him in the shins and run but I was nothing if not mature. See, the first couple of times I met my future husband; he was quite the arrogant wanker. Sitting smoking a cigarette quietly in the corner of any social situation, answering my questions with short, sharp and witty observations that made him sound both untouchable and seemingly, a bit of a cockhead. A very attractive cockhead, but a cockhead none the less. All irrelevant of course, we were both in long term relationships, not like anything could happen anyway. Right?
I don’t know about you, but I've always been intrigued about a couple’s story. How they met. How they got together. Was it fate? Was there just a teeny, tiny bit of stalking involved? In fact, it’s usually my first question when I meet a new couple and not because I’m a fan of small talk, I honestly want to know their story. Because there is always a story.
Here is mine. It’s pretty quick. It’s not at all romantic and it certainly won’t be something I’ll be regaling the grandchildren with one day.
So, like I said, it was 1995. Tommy Lee and Pammy Anderson had just spontaneously gotten married down the beach and given women all over the world new lofty romantic ideals. I was 19 and in a relationship with a guy, who although nice enough, wasn’t my lightening bolt. He wasn’t even my flickering light bulb, he was just my first real boyfriend. And the bong smoking and drinking wasn’t really doing it for me anymore. We’d stalled and my eye had started to wander. It genuinely took him by surprise when I told him it was over. It was sad. It was rough. I’m pretty sure he’s never forgiven me.
So of course, like any good single 19 year old girl, I, along with my best friend, proceeded to go out and get completely shit faced at a friend’s birthday party. And whattya know, who should be there celebrating also, but Phil, being as big a bastard as ever. He made some smartarse comment to me and I returned the favour in kind. It was then that he gave me a look that I’ve never quite forgotten. It was almost like he registered me. I was after all, his mates little sister. Who’d grown up. Suddenly it was on. Like Donkey Kong.
We all proceeded to get quite merry and before I knew it, we were dancing in Cocktails and Dreams. He was dancing. I was dancing. Suddenly we were dancing together. Hands in the air, getting rather into it on the dance floor type dancing, revolting and in hindsight, unrepressed dirty dancing that needed to be relocated to a private room type dancing. Sadly, we couldn’t find a room so we went down the beach. And yep, I was the girl who slept with the guy on the first, well, not even date. Turns out it was the longest one night stand in history.
But from that night on, we were inseparable. Every time I saw him I felt sick and happy and like the hours spent away from him, would most definitely kill me. I think that is the technical description of love. We got married 4 years later. Complete with 5 month old baby in my belly. You can say it - Shotgun, although to be honest, it wasn’t forced at all. Because I knew I wanted to marry him from probably the 5th time I met him.
So I guess the moral of the story here is this: every small snippet of time adds up to something. Possibly even something big, like meeting the person you will fall in love with. And you probably won’t recognise it at the time, but in retrospect, you’ll see how the puzzle came together, piece by inexplicable piece.
What is your story? Please, at least one of you, have a story about meeting your lover in Paris when they saved you from being sucked under a bus. Give a girl something to dream about tonight.
|Hush now. I know. You're welcome.|