My "meet cute"
A while back, someone had asked how I'd met my husband. It's a bit of a story, so kick back and enjoy. Here's my "meet cute"!!
However many years ago, I was working in a tiny rural mountain town west of the Mississippi. One of the perks of this particular location was a local ski area nearby. It was so close, that I could ski and take hospital call at the same time. #winning
Photo courtesy of Flickr/Baker County Tourism Travel Baker County www.flickr.com/photos/travelbakercounty/ 1/12/2019
As you may know, when it comes to chairlifts, there is a line for groups of 2 or 3 or 4 (depending on lift size and group sizes), and then there is the 'singles line' for -- you guessed it -- people skiing/snowboarding solo. (Side note: if you want to cut down on waiting in line, even if you're with friends, the singles line is usually quickest.) Anyway, as I'd done with many days, I got into the singles line and a dude joined me on the lift. I said my obligatory "How it's going" and apparently that was all it took. The conversation floodgates opened.
This helmeted, Hawaiian shirt-wearing, mirror-goggled, ew ... snowboarder ... started talking. Friends, when I say started talking, I mean that once he began he did not stop talking for nearly 2 hours. That's right, we chatted our way up the lift, down a run, up another lift, down yet another run, and on it went. At some point, it came up that I was in healthcare and Future Hubs -- who does NOT have a healthcare background -- actually tried to work in the terms "medulla oblongata" and "uvula" into casual conversation to try and impress me. It was so, so wrong, but hilarious!
As luck would have it, I got called in urgently to the hospital, and had to make an abrupt departure, but not before Future Hubs asked if we could meet up again the next weekend at the ski park. I was game. We exchanged digits. The plan was that I'd call him when I got to the parking area the following Saturday, and we'd go from there.
The next weekend's meetup was a bluebird day, about as fantastic of an early spring ski day as you can get. Clear blue sky, 30 degree temps, snow was not too dry and not too slushy. I parked at the base of the ski park and called Future Hubs. After several rings it went to voice mail. I left a brief message, shrugged, and thought, "I'm being ghosted. Hey, not a problem. If he changed his mind, then no harm no foul. I can take a hint. But I'm still going to have a good day." And so I skied that afternoon in the glorious snow and sunshine and had a fantastic time.
Later that evening, Future Hubs called me all flustered and apologetic. He'd been at the ski park when I called. In fact, he had been riding a lift. His phone had rang and when he went to get the phone, he fumbled with gloves on and ... dropped the phone about fifty feet below him into a snowbank. He tried to identify the spot, finally got off the lift at the top, then snowboarded down to the place where the phone fell. No phone. He looked all over. Nothing. Dejected (or so he tells it), Future Hubs drove the hour and a half back to the bigger town where he lived. He called his cell phone number and a person answered. Another skier had retrieved the phone and figured the owner would eventually call. That person mailed the phone back to him.
Future Hubs then called me with what I felt was the most ridiculous excuse for blowing off a semi-date I'd ever heard. However, I did find that he was sincere in his depiction of the disaster. I'm not sure if I completely believed his reason for not meeting up with me. But with points awarded for creativity of the excuse, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and we went on an actual date a week later.
It was at that actual date where he showed up in normal human clothes, that I learned that Future Hubs was ... bald. You see, he hadn't removed his helmet at any point during the 2 hours of skiing together. Now I knew why. True, this might have been one of the biggest bait-and-switches I'd ever experienced, but by then, it was too late: We got along well, and the rest of the story was history!
Friends, if you see a mildly flustered bald guy hovering around my author table at a signing, reciting random medical terms, feel free to ask him about our "meet cute" -- and you can get HIS side of the story!!
No photo attribution needed. Yup, this is us on our wedding day about a year after we got on that chairlift together! I don't remember the joke we shared right before this photo, but the whole day was basically hilarious with a few disastrous elements. Which seems pretty on-brand for us...
Pull up a chair, my friends. I’m going to tell you a story. It’s the story of how Hubs and I met. Pretty much encapsulates our entire lives together.
It was a cold but sunny February day in a cold area of the country, and I was skiing that day while on call because…I like to tempt fate. (Hey, at reckless speeds, I could go from the top of the mountain to the hospital in 25 minutes, so…close enough.)
As per usual, I got in the “Singles” line of the ski lift. You know, the line where you’re skiing alone? Fine. Also, the Singles line because, a few years earlier, I had gladly jettisoned Bad Decision from my life. And had no intention of attempting any more Decisions for a long, long time.
So, this guy also got on the lift with me because…singles line. He had a snowboard attached to his foot. Strike one. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over his thermal shirt. (It >was< a sunny day, but really? Hello, overkill.) Strike two. A helmet and reflective goggles completed the ensemble. Okay, I’d spot him those items, because…safety first.
What dudes see. (and what they don't see)
Here's the scene: I'm working late, hubs is at home waiting for a Handy Guy to come over and give us a quote for repairs.
My text: Please make sure personal stuff and mess is picked up before Handy Guy comes by
His text: Roger.
I come home after Handy Guy has left. In my bathroom is the untouched mess of hair product, hairdo electronic implements, and assorted anti-old age goops. Oh, and my Pill package is wrapped up inside a crumpled towel. Ah yes, he has removed the offending Personal Item from view but left the messy stuff out. Sigh. Good job.
Then, as I walk back through the bedroom, I see it: 2 bras and several undies. Just sitting on the dresser in plain sight. Super obvious. Yup.
When asked to describe the logic behind the choices made, hubs said, "I didn't see the clothes."
Right there. Plain sight.
But thank God the prescription was hidden...
Hubby and I were playing the hypothetical/impossible game of ‘what if’ a few nights ago.
To understand how ridiculous the game is, let’s call the proverbial spade a spade: Hubs and I are a short and stumpy match made in heaven. While we like to imagine that once upon a time we were ‘elite athletes’, the reality is much different. We’re okay with that fact.
But for funsies, let’s go through the list and see what sports might net these two hobbits a gold medal!
#1) Archery: Not really. I can’t hit a fly with an oversized flyswatter, and hubs would kill himself with the compound bow.
#2) Rowing: While it’s a point of dubious pride that I have pretty amazing, flabby man-arms, it’s a foregone conclusion that a few rows with the oars and I’d be done. Snack, please.
How To Take Hubby Shopping
Please understand that my hubby hates shopping with a rabid, seething hatred the likes of which can only be imagined by mere mortals. And if you say anything about either shopping for or wearing a tie, his entire face will split down the middle, his head will rotate and the fires of hell will spew forth from his mouth.
So, it’s not a great idea, bringing up shopping, much less for normal, everyday clothing. But now we have a Family Trip coming up, with parents, aunts, and uncles, and it involves wearing more than camos and plaid shirts. (Yeah. He wears plaid and camo. Together. This is what I have to work with, folks. It’s not pretty.)
Moving again: What I learned
Just completed a cross-country move 1500 miles from one end of the Earth to a new rural practice/group at the other end of the Earth. At least I'm consistent -- I do enjoy rural medicine. And a new adventure is always fun.
But phew, I'm pooped. It's not my first rodeo with the whole moving thing, but every time there's a big life change, there must be lessons, right? Here goes....
#10) 2 drivers + 2 cars is much harder than 2 drivers + 1 car. Especially traveling through major metro areas together. Note to self: automatically add 20% drive time when it's 2 cars.
#9) One cannot sustain road rage for 1500 miles. Not without precipitating an aneurysm.
#8) Kitties + traveling = tranquilizer. And not for the animals.
#7) There really ARE millions of different combinations of Subway sandwiches!
#6) 2 Subway sandwiches/day x 4 days = unique GI consequences.
#5) Driving 10 hours/day does not feel the same now as it it did when I was 20 and invincible. Now I say things like "dadgum sciatica" and "I have to pee AGAIN?" and "my dyspepsia is firing up again" (see item 6). Yeah, fabulous.
My "active" vacation from hell
So hubby and I signed up for an "active" vacation in Canada. Hiking each day in fresh air, meeting the locals, eating fabulous fresh meals. And my parents would come along as well. What could possibly go wrong?
A few caveats, because I feel the need to defend myself before I perform the analysis of a some very bad decision making.
Hubs and I are not slouches. In fact, we're training for a 1/2 marathon and can easily run 10 miles. The glossy trip brochure was not specific as to the schedule -- had the torment been detailed, we wouldn't have gone. The trip leaders were super nice people who worked hard all week long -- it's not their fault. And finally, I started the trip exhausted. A colleague went on emergency leave, and I picked up a week of Ob/c-section call the week prior to this trip, and in fact was on call up until midnight prior to leaving, which is not the optimal way to begin a vacation. I get that. No one's fault. The fault was signing up in the first place.
With that having been said, I give you: The Great Canadian Death March -- otherwise known as a week of adult summer camp minus arts/crafts and daily nap time.
In a rare un-medical post and an even rarer girly girl post, I need to talk about shopping. Need. To.
Don't get met wrong, I loved the ECWC. http://gsrwa.org/ecwc/conference/ Loved it. But I won't lie, there's this big ol' mall right across the road from the hotel. With *fancy* stores and all. And on the other side of the hotel? A Barnes and Noble. A real one. With books. You know, with the book-smell and everything.
So what is this shopping that I speak of?
Let me put this in perspective. If you were to drive to the end of the world, then go another hour, you're getting close to where I live. My street address doesn't mapquest well. And that's cool, because normally online shopping works just fine.
But to be there in person? In a mall? In a big book store? HEAVEN.
My husband has an app on his phone that buzzes every time there's a charge on our credit card. So I could just imagine him getting mildly electrocuted every half hour or so while I was burning up the sales. His face going EERGH, MRRPH, TWAACK.
Author, daydreamer, and practitioner of trying very hard to duct tape folks together and help when I can.
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