The small but surprisingly supportive group of readers who have been following my faltering blog were holding me accountable to write about “How I Met My Wife.” So, I dutifully began to document this wonderfully romantic story of love at first sight – the funny, profound, miraculous details that fell into place so that I asked Karen to marry me after knowing her for only one week. Great story! It will make a great blog.
I’m tying furiously away on my laptop on the couch. I usually write in my den but wanted to be around Karen Sunday night so used the laptop. “What are you writing?” she asked.
“I’m writing a blog about how we met and became engaged.”
“That’s so sweet!” she exclaimed, happily.
“By the way,” I added. “I want to get it accurate. Do you remember if the granola bar was a peanut butter bar or an oatmeal bar?”
It is amazing how a face can go from joy to suspicion with just a narrowing of the eyes and down turn of the corners of the mouth. “You’re not writing about that part, are you?”
“Well…” I pause, having been married long enough to know almost instantly when I’m no longer on solid ground. “It’s all part of the story. Where we met, what we said, what we did. It’s those little details that make a story come to life. The convention center, the park bench, the coffee machine…”
“Who’s going to read this? I don’t want the details of my private life made public!”
I know I’m definitely on shaky ground now and I’m backtracking like crazy. “I wasn’t going to talk about the…er…private stuff. What’s wrong with the eating a granola bar and drinking coffee part?”
“That’s stuff between us.”
“But we’ve told the story to all our friends, most of our acquaintences, and probably some of our enemies!”
“But if you put this on the Internet, who knows who’s going to read it? Anybody could read it!
I start to say, “Like the granola police?” But clap my hand over my mouth. I already realize that the window of opportunity has passed. Even if I win the argument and she agrees that the whirlwind, miraculous, life-changing events of our love at first sight marriage should be sung from the mountaintops, I will no longer be able to write it anyway. I won’t be able to keep from looking with paranoia at every little jewel-like detail before I add it to the story.
The story of how I met my wife which was going to be a 5-part blog at least will turn into the following:
THE STORY OF HOW WE MET: In 1986, I was doing something, somewhere and met Karen. We had a generically flavored granola bar but I can’t reveal whether we drank coffee or not. We talked about many things which I will not reveal even if waterboarded. Several other things occurred. At a later time, somewhere else, the amazing confluence of these occurrences and discussions, led me to propose to her.
BAGMAN: “Yeah, that went well. You’re such a wimp, I’m embarrassed to be part of your subconscious.”
BUTLER: “Leave him alone. He’s just respecting his wife’s wishes and I applaud him for it. He can blog about himself but he shouldn’t bring other people into it if they don’t want him to.”
BAGMAN: “This isn’t any fun anymore. I’m going to my room.”
I watched Bagman go into his room and turn off the light. I could see Butler still seated as his desk muttering to himself and checking case law about the ethics and politics about blogging and how people have lost their jobs because their employers have read their blogs. Angrily, I pulled the blug on Butlers desk lamp as well and left him in the dark. Then I closed the laptop, picked up a book from the coffee table and pretended to read.
“You want a bowl of ice cream?” my wife asked.
“I’m not hungry,” I muttered.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. It was the first time I had turned down ice cream since it had been invented.
“No. I’m fine,” I said.