My first date

I married my crush; we met in high school. I didn't meet him on an elevator ride to an important executive meeting. I didn't spot him across the way at a fancy restaurant. I fell for him when were oh, 14, both in thick-rimmed glasses, yet to come into our own. Still rolling up our jeans legs and playing hackey sack.

I believe every love story deserves to be told. It takes us women to a fairy tale place we frequent too little of the time.

One of my favorite books by John and Stasi Eldridge, Captivating, spins it best:

"...being romanced isn't all that a woman wants,

and John and I are certainly not saying that a woman ought to derive
the meaning of her existence from whether or not she is being or has been romanced
by a man...but don't you see that you want this"? To be desired, to be pursued by one
who loves you, to be someone's priority? Most of our addictions as women flare up when
we feel that we are not loved or sought after. At some core place, maybe deep within,
perhaps hidden or buried in her heart, every woman wants to be seen, wanted, and pursued. We want to be romanced." (pg. 10)

As high school sweethearts, Shawn and I fall into a minority of married couples. We get lots of, "oh, that's cute." It's probably better for everyone that my dating endeavors didn't go very far...because I was stupid. My dating history, B.S. (before Shawn), is a series of disasters I barely survived to speak about. For instance, my first date went something like this:

Phone call from "Hugh": Hi, Mindy. I just called "Betsy" to see if she wanted to go see a movie but she can't, so, do you want to go?" I was his second choice. A smart woman would never concede to second tier. But I wasn't yet a smart woman and wanted to get my first date out of the way. I wasn't even remotely flattered, for his head was a tad too large for my taste. But stupidly I obliged and primped like I was going out with Johnathan Taylor Thomas. I wore light wash jeans, a blue sweater with a stripe across my flat chest, and faux leather Payless loafers.

We drove to a nearby town with a "nicer theater" and all the while I'm praying he won't try to hold my hand. I said more dear Lord's under my breath than I had since revival. As we watched Mr. Magoo, one of my guardian angels must've been working overtime to save my soul...or, rather, to save me from having to hold hands with this dude. Isn't that what kids did at the movies?

We drove home in silence. Grateful to have reached home, I was ready to go inside and watch Bewitched or listen to DC Talk and play with my hair (*no life*). No such luck. Hugh insisted on coming inside and he and my mom had a nice ending to our first/last date. I felt like the third wheel as they exchanged chatter over sugar cookies. We said our goodbyes and I thanked him for a pleasant evening. But truly, my 16-year old heart was alternately disgusted and embittered about the dating thing. This was what I'd been waiting for? Lesson learned: wait for a hot one to sweep you off your feet...

...to kiss you, with silent Christmas lights as witnesses, on a snowy, glistening evening.