Meatloaf memory

There’s a few posts that have been stuck in my brain – one of them is about my J.O.B – but it’s Saturday, and I really don’t want to think/write/delve into work right now. Even though I love my work to bits, we’ll save that for another day.

I’ve been meaning to tell you about the awkward, long, frustrating courtship that my husband and I had in college. To clarify – I consider “courting” everything that happened before we got together.

Let me set the scene – I was 19, he was 21. I think I’ve told you all that I met him through a friend, who had grown up in the same neighborhood. The only thing she’d told me about him was that he was….quiet, a loner. She was surprised he was even talking to her then – but apparently they were in the same class and he needed notes.

It turned out that he lived in my dorm – on my floor – across the hall from me. We started hanging out, going to lunch, going to dinner, walking to class, meeting up between classes etc. We talked about movies, family, music. He couldn’t believe that I had never listened to Neil Young, Led Zeppelin or any of the classic rock he considered Bible. Back then he was Elton John obsessed – the Springsteen obsession happened much later, during his 30s.

He made me tapes upon tapes upon tapes. I considered each one a secret message conveying his love and desire for me. But weeks, months into the talks, the walks, the chats, the meals – nothing. Not one little hint that he liked me.

I decided it was because we were never alone. My roommates, friends, etc. were always around when we were together. So I started plotting “alone” time. No go. Nothing. It was like I was stuck in a French film – all we did was talk. I was pissed. I didn’t even like all that music I was being forced to listen to – and I couldn’t deal with one more conversation about why The Godfather was the shit!

It was time to let it go. Almost.

At the end of October we heard that we’d have a concert on campus. Someone named Meatloaf was coming to perform. Huh? Who? Never heard of him. But the campus went crazy – apparently he was a corny, cheesy classic. All my gal pals started singing his “hits”. Paradise by the Dashboard Lights, I’d do Anything for Love, etc. I chalked this up to a New York thing.

Then something crazy happened – the boy told me that he’d buy me tickets to the concert because I had to go, I needed to hear him live. Now ladies, am I crazy or does this sound like a date to you? I was thrilled. Like a bat out of hell yeah I’d go (sorry).

What I didn’t realize until that night is that the loner, the shy guy, the dude who was really on his own for the most part – decided to go with 80 other people. I’d never even seen him talk to all these people – where did they come from??

Thank goodness that one of the peeps was his sister. I’d find out later that they were (and are) very close and nothing made them happier than sharing a concert together. She was the opposite of the boy. Like oil and water opposite. She was easy to smile, laugh, and be silly. I immediately loved her. She made you feel like you were her best friend the moment you met her – unlike her brother who had you go through a long, slow interview process to earn his time.

By then I was so over the weirdo courting/hanging out that I decided to just let loose and have some fun. There was cheap beer involved. We all went to the concert (where he DID NOT sit next to me, I’m just sayin’) – and then back to his room. Again – who are all these people? His sister and I spent most of the night talking – and I spilled my beans. Everyone knew I liked her brother – except her brother.

She was giddy with excitement. She begged me to tell him – she begged me to let her tell him. And because I was tired, and had just sat through the most heinous concert (where an actual meatloaf was thrown at Meatloaf) and again – cheap beer was involved – I gave in. Fine. Tell him. What did I care. Nothing was going to happen. Trust me, besides jumping him, I’d tried everything else.

So she told him. And it turned out that he liked me too. The very next night he kissed me and it was all over, for me. He told me that all those days, weeks of talking he just didn’t know. And that he wanted to be sure, really really sure that he wouldn’t be rejected. Dummy.

This is us – circa Meatloaf concert.

A girl named coconut

I need to share some important personal truths with you…

  • I am obsessed – OBSESSED with people watching. You could drop me off in any major city on a corner and I’d be fine staring at people for hours.
  • My husband has called me coconut since the first week we met.  There is no cute story. No cute connection to the fruit. It’s very disappointing to people.  I’ll just always be coconut for no good reason.
  • I did not have these foods until I got to NYC:  sour cream, mustard, cream cheese, bagels, Chinese food, Brie, Cheddar, or any other type of cheese that wasn’t fake American cheese slices, mushrooms (ewww, wasn’t missing much), broccoli, any rice that wasn’t Basmati (Uncle who?).
  • I cannot ride a bike. Calm down.
  • I’ve never broken a bone – I was an “inside” kid.
  • I can swim but don’t love the pool (yes, even on hot days). I’d never swim in the ocean (I need to know there’s a bottom somewhere underneath me)
  • I just drank my first mudslide at 40 (not my thing yo)
  • You know all those reality shows you see advertised on TV and you shake your head and say,” who would watch that crap?”. That would be me. I would, could and do watch that crap.
  • I’ve never been on a date. Why? Because I wasn’t allowed to date growing up, and then I met my husband 2 seconds after I got to college and then I married him 5 minutes later. Thus! No dates.  Ok – one date.  I’ve been on one date.  A few years ago, I left my husband and kids at home, and met a dreamy, steamy man in NYC for a hot night out.  He was single at the time, now he’s engaged to the man of his dreams.  Usually when I’m with him he’s pointing at me – laughing.  But not that night.  Unlike the other men in my life (my husband and my then 3-year-old son) – he figured out the formula to make me happy:  Wine+Flat Bread.  And so we went from one joint to another.  He found every restaurant that served flatbread in NYC and we hit it hard.  No tofu veggie places. No vegan haunts. Not for me. Not that night.  It was lovely. After he dropped me off, he went out for his real night out.