Boy Meets Girl Part I...

Summer 2008.  I was entirely moved into my house by March, had survived (barely) my first semester of teaching in May, and was settling in to a rather uneventful summer... so boring that by fall, I had come up with the super stupid idea to adopt a 9-week old puppy (once again, another story for another day).  A teacher friend of mine had spent the summer months looking for a house in the area to purchase.  And since I had just been down that road a few months prior, I decided to tag along with her to several house showings, just to see what had come available.

On one particularly Indiana-esque, summer afternoon (read: so humid we would have fared better with gills), we visited a house about a half mile away from my own.  I'm a sucker for old homes, and this one being built near the turn of the century peaked my interest.  I vividly remember standing in the uncharacteristically large kitchen of the house, admiring a built-in window seat, complete with storage drawers that donned original hardware (see, I told you I'm a geek, but they just really don't make 'em like that anymore).  I've always felt that old buildings and houses have a certain "vibe" about them-- extra energy or something (but don't read too far into that; I definitely don't claim to be a psychic medium, and truth be told, brushes with the supernatural sort of creep me out).  But anyway, there was definitely something vibe-ish to this house-- I felt certain that maybe I had been there before, would be there again some day... or more logically, that I'd been to another home with similar "old house" features.  I left with sort of a silly, haunted feeling... which eventually, I dismissed.  End of story...

...Until exactly one year later.  Summer 2009.  The vast majority of my time that year had been occupied by two things:  1.)  trying to keep my head above the waters of planning, teaching, & grading, a task that truly is insurmountable and is completely worth a six-digit income (but let's not talk politics)... and 2.)  potty-training, deworming, de-flea-ing that hyper little creature I lovingly referred to as a pet.  They say you meet Mr. Right when you least expect it, and I certainly had my plate too full to be on the hunt for a man.  Besides, if moving away from a college town without my "Mrs." degree wasn't enough of a death sentence (I know, poor, old-fashioned me), moving back to my hometown seemed like the nail in the coffin for any hope of marriage.  The town I call home is a wild conglomeration of highly intelligent (read:  socially awkward) engineers mixed with folks who've probably never left the tri-county area.  The former group one only sees downtown during lunchtime, walking purposefully and in uniform in twos and threes like little ants.  The latter group can be spotted eating fried Twinkies at the 4-H fair.  You get the idea.  Having serious qualms about marrying an engineer... and not being a much of a fan snack cakes either, I had essentially resigned myself to spinster-hood-- Saturday evenings drinking decaf and grading a few hundred poorly-written Romeo & Juliet essays... I suppose there could be worse ways to spend my childbearing years. ;)

In the midst of all of those angst-ridden emotions, I was trying ever so diligently to convince myself that I was, indeed, a reasonably responsible adult.  And that meant tackling a whole host of new vocabulary terms-- tax deductions, escrow accounts, PMI, the list goes on and on (and still overwhelms me).  I had received in the mail several ominous and incomprehensible bank documents, collectively the size of the New York City phonebook, and my father, who works in banking, encouraged me to take everything downtown; the friendly folks at the bank would know exactly how to help....

After one unsuccessful trip, I was told I needed to return during regular, weekday business hours when someone who knew a lot more than the first guy would be able to point me in the right direction.  It should be noted that my confrontational abilities leave a lot to be desired.  I'd rather eat the undercooked steak or the overcooked fish than return my entree and would rather listen to the telemarketer's spiel than cut him off the moment he asks if I'm interested in completing the 2-minute survey.  And I'm the girl who, against my better judgement and the echo of my dad's booming voice raised eyebrows, buys the overpriced extended warranty because I just can't say, "no."And at the bank, I felt even more at a disadvantage because I had no idea what I was doing and my only strategy for coping was to fork over the phonebook and sheepishly mutter, "I need help" in the most distressed tone I could muster.  So as you can imagine, my motivation for returning to the back for a second go-round was really high ;)

But just in case you're taking notes and are psychoanalyzing me, I also live in a perpetual state of guilt that somehow I've royally messed up and it's only a matter of time before destiny catches up with me. So naturally, I figured that if I didn't deal with whatever documents the bank had sent, the IRS would throw me in jail for tax evasion, fraud, or some other term that seemed clear to everyone else but me.  By the way, in the back of my mind, I'm sort of wondering if everyone else has been through some sort of  "adulthood training."  If that's the case, please send a flyer this way.  I still don't know the difference between a routing number and a checking account number, nor am I ever certain how to spell the word diarrhea.  Would like to clear that up by the time I'm 30.  

So back to the story...

It was still summer, but the clock was ticking, and I needed to get my rear downtown before school started.  I had gotten up early one morning to clean the house and walk the gremlin dog, but my plan to head downtown was a spur of the moment decision.  Hanging on to the hope that all of this housing business could be resolved with a few signatures and a quick drop-off to some office in the basement, I headed downtown in the work clothes I had thrown on first thing-- an old pair of my sister's athletic shorts, a t-shirt with pit stains, and a neon blue Colts ball cap so ugly I've since let the dog use it as a chew toy.  Note:  I look positively ridiculous with a hat on... but I look even more hideous before I've quaffed my hair for the day, which in its natural state, resembles something cross between an afro and Abraham Lincoln's top hat.  Lucky me.

The bank was busier than I expected on a weekday morning.  As I mentioned earlier, my dad works at a bank--has for as a long as I've been alive, and coincidentally, he had actually worked at this particular bank for many of my growing-up years.  As you can imagine, I was holding my breath that between my unwashed face and the one-of-a-kind ball cap I was sporting, I could go unrecognized.

As I waited in line to speak with someone who could confirm that I was not, in fact, headed for a maximum security prison, a young banker caught my eye.  He was busy helping other clients with their own phonebook issues, smiling and nodding and listening to life stories about the 5-generation family farm, the ditzy daughter who, once again, overdrafted her account, and the price of gas in 1962.  I had several minutes to study this handsome, clean-cut fella with dark skin and hair.  And the longer I watched him, the more mesmerized I became.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved language.  I love how words can be manipulated, arranged, and rearranged to capture a moment, sometimes more beautifully than the moment itself.  I would argue that words largely shape how we think and what think about; but without the right ones, we're  almost imprisoned within the walls of language.  Anyone who has studied a foreign language knows what I'm talking about.  There are all sorts of words, phrases, and idioms that exist in Spanish, for example, for which there is no exact translation to English.  And unfortunately, the best I can do to describe my morning at the bank is to relay a clumsy, muddled mess of words that just don't quite fit.

The longer I watched the banker, the more I felt like I was in some sort of time warp-- something like deja vu meets the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  At one point, I remember looking at my arms and feet and hands just to make sure I was still firmly planted inside my own body.  I could have sworn this man was someone I knew well... but more like someone I knew I was going to know.  Even his outfit--khakis with a blue and white stripped, button-down shirt (which I still have) seemed like what I knew he'd be wearing when I met him.  I've been assured by many that there is no real evidence to support that human souls exist before conception.  But to this day, I can't shake the feeling that I knew Eric before I actually met him... or that I knew I was going to meet him, but somehow forgot between there and here... wherever "there" happens to be.

 Could I describe all that as love at first sight?  I sure hope not.  It's a tired, ugly cliche, if you ask me.

Trying to brush aside one of the most unusual and indescribable feelings of my life, I sat down at his desk and pulled off the fork lift the phonebook of documents that had become a real thorn in my side.  One look at my last name, and the banker perked up, "Oh, you must be related to Al!"  We chatted for a bit (he never once made fun of my goofy hat, so that pretty much sealed the deal for me), and most importantly, he revealed his name-- Eric Cave.  I vaguely remembered his older sister, who had hung around a couple of mutual friends in high school, but that was enough of a connection for smooth talkin' Eric to invite me over to his parents' house for dinner in a couple of days, you know, just to catch up with his sister... who I barely remembered ;)  We exchanged phone numbers, with the tentative plan to touch base before our romantic dinner date (which would include siblings of all ages, parents, two nieces, and a partridge in a pair tree).

And the rest is history... for another time...

** Part II of our fairy tale will most likely be the next blog post I write, so stay tuned... I promise talk of cheeseburgers, graveyards, and "I do!"