Cardiogirl: 19% body fat 100% fun

I was hanging out over at purple chai (somehow I got there via junglebetti’s favorite list, it’s a favorite of a favorite) and she has “The Story of Us” as one of her sidebars. She got the idea from wifemotherme (who is locked and I don’t have the password) and I’m gonna use it here. Thanks for the idea, folks.

The method that didn’t work

I was never very good at dating. In college I did some “group” dates where the guy and I were friends with a group of people and the whole group went out regularly together. After college, in my early 20s I spent a year or so dating a jerk — isn’t that the requisite? — and after that I did a stint of terrible blind dates.

At 25 I decided I was never going on a blind date again. I figured marriage was not in the cards for me.

Until that point in time (the early 1990s) I never called a guy. He would get my number, we would go out and I would wait for him to call me. Sometimes the call came and I didn’t want it to. Cue the answering machine and the blinking red light. Sometimes the call never did come and I desperately wanted it to. This is when the red light on the answer machine mocked me with its unending glow.

At 25 and after all the bad blind dates, I decided if I ran into a man I was interested in things were going to be different. I was going to be more assertive, I was going to call him.

A new era

A few months after that proclamation I met Mr. C. It was May 1993 and I was taking out the trash; I’d just gotten home after driving 24 hours back from Florida and I hadn’t had a shower since the day before. I did a quick survey of the refrigerator and discovered some old lettuce that really needed to be thrown away. I opted to take out the trash before I took a shower. No sense in cleaning up and then carrying out a bag of moldy lettuce, right? Right.

Now I’m not going to say I could have scared small children, but I wasn’t feeling fresh as a daisy. I did have a killer tan, though. Like a cat burglar I checked out the path to the dumpster. Looking left and right, I decided the coast was clear. No other sign of life. I trotted to the dumpster and I sent the bag sailing into the receptacle. As the white trash bag made its decent into the metal container I heard a voice say, “Excuse me, do you live here?”

Because I didn’t want to be seen I looked behind me, raised my eyebrows and put my index finger on my sternum — the international sign that means, “You talkin’ to me?” Yeah, he was talkin’ to me. We ended up chatting, in front of the dumpster, for about half an hour.

He was trying to decide which building of the available 25 to move into. I lived in Building 1, he had money down on Building 5. He was concerned about the noise, since this was the building closest to the main road, however, he had to make a decision because he was moving in that Saturday.

I talked him out of Building 5 and into Building 1 (buffs her nails on her lapel.) In fact, he ended up moving in next to me, just one door over and one floor down; our apartments shared a stairwell. Now that’s not the end of the story; I had to go into stealth mode to snag him.

Phase One: Planning the approach

I staked out the parking lot on Saturday morning, since I knew he was moving in that day. When he got there I went running so that I could return and “bump into him.” Worked like a charm.

And the Emmy goes to Cardiogirl for acting surprised when she ran into the Cute Guy Next Door. Film rolls as I say, “That’s right! You were moving in on Saturday. Welcome to the neighborhood!”

I’d like to thank the Academy, my acting coach for believing in me. . .

By now I figured all I had to do to actually impress him was take a shower, so I went into my apartment, cleaned up and emerged fresh as a daisy. I waved at him again (so he could see how well I clean up, you know) and then went to the store to buy a pack of gum. Yes, it was all smoke and mirrors and he fell for all of it.

Phase Two: The chocolate chip cookies

A couple of days later I made him chocolate chip cookies and gave it to him in a Tupperware container. This advice was given to me by my friend. She speculated that if he had a girlfriend he would promptly dump the cookies and return the Tupperware, as the girlfriend would immediately sniff out foreign Tupperware in his house. Yes, I spent hours analyzing his moves. Leave your judgment at the door, gingah.

Phase Three: Closing the deal

He kept the Tupperware until the next weekend when he returned it while he was doing laundry. We had a community laundry room in the basement. So when he stopped by to drop off the Tupperware, he had his laundry basket with him. He admitted later (and I knew at the time since I am the Master of Deception) it was a safety device. If we chatted and did not get along, he could point to his empty laundry basket as his excuse to beat feet.

But we did get along and in August ’94 we attached the ball and chain. The rest, as they say, is history.

And he’s still the best thing I ever found at the dumpster.

This entry was posted on Saturday, June 23rd, 2007 at 10:00 am and is filed under Humor, Relationships. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.