We met for a drink which evolved into dinner. He was interesting, smart, handsome; and quirky. I’m a sucker for quirky. He was a disillusioned, iconoclastic, ex-academic who lived with his enormous white, furry, drooling dog in a house in the Oakland hills. He was an oenophile, epicure, and gourmet chef. A virtual orphan, (his father passed when he was five and his mom passed when he was nineteen) he seemed like a character in a novel.
At evening’s end he was careful to give me plenty of space. He did not move in for a peck on the cheek or even a chaste hug when he walked me to my car. With nary an offered handshake, there was no physical contact at all between us as we said goodnight. Much later that he told me he hadn’t wanted to scare me off. Standing some distance from me while saying goodnight he asked if he could call me again.
I waved—he seemed so far away—gave a noncommittal smile saying, “Sure.”
In all honesty, I was not thinking things between us were going to run for any significant period of time. I figured he was another of the many nice guys I’d met, a guy not really for me, a guy I might include in a story sometime as “the statistician” or “the guy without the ponytail” or “the guy who kept his distance saying goodnight so that I thought my deodorant had failed.”
He was consistent, persistent, attentive, earnest, thoughtful, and exuded that certain quirky quality that always keeps me coming back for more.
We dated. And as we dated and got to know each other better, I found he was quirkier than I’d anticipated. I like quirky, but you can get too much of a good thing. I wasn’t sure if his quirky cup was running over or if it was merely brimming full and threatening a sticky spill at the slightest jostle. It was still early enough that it didn’t really matter. I looked at our relationship as an enjoyable way to pass the time. I had no expectations other than to have a nice interlude, someone to talk to my friends about, someone to fill my empty spaces. I anticipated a break in the action at some point and to move on to another relationship. I was physically there, emotionally there—in a very limited fashion—but I was unavailable for anything that involved long-term planning.
Weeks passed and we spent more and more time together. He called me every night—every night. He insisted that he wasn’t good at talking on the phone, but with me, he seemed to have no problem—surprising considering my phone faculties are rather weak. Some weekends we spent together, some we spent apart. As the months went by, we spent most weekends together. Slowly, steadily, like the constant flow of water finding a path into the smallest of pores, he seeped his way into the lives of my son and myself. I wish I could say that I was crazy about him from the start, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t have been crazy about anyone right from the start.
Eventually, the relationship worked itself into a plain, old-fashioned—colored with a shade of quirky—case of love.
There were complications, naturally. Complications are a given with any relationship. We both had wounds to lick and scars to flaunt from prior romantic associations. We each had histories of liaisons, which left us weary, wary, and overly willing to react to one another. We had some distance to cover before hitting our stride. Tim was alert to the possibility of us hitting that stride long before I. There were logistics to sort out. He lived in Oakland; I lived in Novato, an hour’s drive away. I was not flexible about location since I shared custody of my son. There were issues surrounding our children. Tim’s two kids lived in Maine, so while we did not have to surmount the difficulties of living as a blended family, we did have to figure out how we could coexist peaceably for up to four weeks at a time. It took negotiations and behavior modification on all our parts, but we managed.
When Tim proposed, he did it with old-fashioned style. For a flare of drama replete with tear rendering, he made the request in front of my dad and step-mom. We sat at dinner, stunned, as Tim asked my father’s permission to marry me. Dad, apparently never expecting such a question, had to be prompted twice before responding. Undone by the request, he finally sputtered out his approval. Tim then got down on one knee—no, I am not exaggerating for creative license—and asked for my hand. He was crying. My dad was crying. I was crying when I said yes. It was the quintessential Kleenex moment for the three of us. Be forewarned. When Tim proposes you’d better be wearing waterproof mascara.
Wedding plans ensued.
