The best place to start a story is at the beginning.
Beginnings are so hopeful. So fun. So exciting. I’ll never forget the beginning of my love story.
I spotted him. He looked so good. I mean, really good. I think it would make a great scene in a romantic comedy. A young women walks into church and sees a handsome, slightly-rugged looking young man. She can’t take her eyes off his curly, full, but perfectly styled hair. His five o’clock shadow enhancing his chiseled jawline. The beat up boots, skinny jeans, blue button down and suit vest. Those piercing blue eyes. She has to know who he is.
You can picture it, right? I still can and that was ten years ago.
I leaned into my mother’s ear and asked, “Who is that?”
“It’s Pastor’s son.”
“Oh… well, he is going to be my husband.”
A lot of me wonders if I knew I was right. Did I know that he was my “person”? How did I call it from just looking at him? Do I believe in love at first sight?
I couldn’t shake him. I saw him, tried to start a conversation, but my pick-up attempt crashed and burned, then… nothing. Somehow he stayed with me. The thought of him. That image of him sitting in church, unaware of how struck I was by him. For four years we did not see each other, we did not talk, and we had other relationships.
Then, on New Year’s Day, I called my mom to check in and let her know I survived New Year’s Eve in New York City. In our brief conversation, she mentioned that AJ, the guy I never forgot about, the guy with those eyes, and that face, was considering being in the city for New Year’s Eve as well.
I don’t know why… but I felt like this was my chance (again). I had to reach out to him. Maybe this was when the real story begins.
I friend requested him on Facebook, the 2011 version of sending someone a drink at the bar. A first move.
Within minutes he accepted, and our love story began.