In case you weren’t here for Part I, aka Love at First BMW, this is Part II of the story of how the husband and I met, which will eventually be Part II of how the husband and I met, fell in love, got married and proceeded to not have babies for eight years even though everyone is all, “you should totally have babies.”
If you haven’t done so already, you should read Part I or otherwise this part won’t make much sense nor be as interesting. Or maybe it will make more sense and be even less interesting. My ability to gauge your potential understanding/interest level is severely diminished by my current state of wine ingestion (also, in case anyone is wondering, it took me four tries to spell ingestion and I couldn’t even rely on Spellcheck because my letter assembly was so far off that Spellcheck was all, “I don’t know what the hell you are trying to say. Go home, you are drunk.” Not only is that completely unhelpful, but I don’t appreciate the judgment, Spellcheck.).
In case anyone is wondering, I’m on my fourth glass of wine. I feel it’s important to note, though, that although several days have passed between this post and Part I (I’m assuming, since I am terrible at posting every day), I have not been consecutively drinking for that many days. I am writing Part II the same night I’m writing Part I, ipso facto, all four glasses of wine are being drunk the same night. I honestly don’t know if that makes me more or less of a wine-o but What. Ever. This is the longest and most pointless intro in the history of ever.
Now back to the story.
So, the husband enters the dorm room with shockingly white teeth, which has more to do with the black light and less to do with his commitment to dental hygiene. Jerkface meanie introduces me and my friends as, “Some girls I went to high school with. They carried their Bibles around with them everywhere.”
To which I would like to point out a few things:
1.) We went to a Christian high school which means we had Bible class every day and Chapel once a week so all of us, even you jerkface meanie, carried our Bibles everywhere at least some of the time;
2.) I’m sure you meant it to be an insult, but I am not the least bit insulted and/or embarrassed by carrying my Bible and any guy who would be put off by that is no guy I want to be with;
3.) And, AND! Upon hearing that, the husband was all, “I too carry my Bible with me everywhere.” (Or something to that effect. As mentioned in Part I, I’m a little fuzzy on the details.)
So there, jerkface meanie.
Upon hearing that the husband shares our affinity for Bible carrying, my friends and I invite him to church where the husband and I (who was at this point was known as the guy with shockingly white teeth that I invited to church) sit next to each other and hold hands during prayer and take communion and eventually fall in love and get married and don’t have babies eight years later even though everyone is all, “you should totally have babies.”
And that is the version of “how we met” that we tell our parents (minus the part about me being 19 and shallow and following some guys in a BMW back to their dorm) because it sounds all wholesome and mildly romantic, but actually, before we invited the husband to go to church we invited him to go camping. And then promptly uninvited him.
Or maybe we invited him to church, determined he wasn’t serial killer material and therefore safe to invite camping…so we did, but then uninvited him.
I don’t remember and honestly, at this stage in the game, does it even matter at what point on the Timeline of Us that we invited then uninvited him to spend the night in a tent with six girls?
The husband would probably argue that it does matter since that was the first and only time he’s been invited to share a tent with six girls (right, husband? Right?!!!!), but he is asleep right now so he doesn’t get a say in contributing to this most fascinating tale of love. And also, he doesn’t remember what we did yesterday so he probably has no recollection whatsoever that a potential camping trip was ever in play.
I feel the need to recount the camping trip for you all. Not because it has anything to do with the story of the husband and I, but because it has to do with my friends and I being complete and total idiots. And that is always a story worth telling (or so says these four glasses of wine).
My friends and I rent a tent from a store at the student union, throw it in the car and drive an hour and a half to a campsite. It is dark when we arrive so we use my friend’s headlights to illuminate the tent- assembly process. Fast forward 700 hours and her car battery is dead and we are still without shelter because while tent-assembly may not require rocket science genius, it most certainly requires the intelligence and/or collective instruction-reading ability of six college freshman females…and clearly we are lacking.
Finally, after witnessing much woe and angst, the couple in the campsite next to us gets tired of seeing us struggle and offers to help. Approximately 2.5 seconds later our tent is assembled.
*Happy dance, pee our pants*
We head to the bathrooms to don our bathing suits and sweaters because it is below 70 degrees (or as we Floridians like to say, “It’s freezing!”). Off we jaunt to the pool but are reluctant to shed our outerwear due to aforementioned frigid temperatures.
We are sitting on the picnic table wearing our sweaters when the owner of the campsite comes by. He is this really old guy (which, since we were 19 at the time, means he was probably, like, 26), and we ask him to take a picture of us. He takes our camera and comes up with a brilliant plan:
“You guys should take your sweaters off and do a bunch of poses and I’ll take pictures of you.”
And we are all, “That sounds swell. Is this the part of the trip where we get raped and murdered?”
Terrified, we run back to our tent. Later, for reasons I can only attribute to pure insanity, two of my friends decide to take a walk around the campsite, which also doubles as a mobile home park. They walk by one mobile home and hear the moanings of what sounds like a very immobile elderly lady. They seek out old creepy pervy photographer dude to let him know that there is very good chance someone has fallen and can’t get up. I’m not exactly sure what he says to them in reply, but they end up sleeping in the car with the doors locked that night.
The next night, one of my friend’s boyfriends, Charlie comes to camp with us, and even though it is a girls’ camping weekend (the prime reason the husband was uninvited) we determine it is okay for him to be there because:
1.) He has a large tent that actually sleeps six (now seven) people;
2.) We could use some testosterone protection;
3.) And, most importantly, he is 21 and has brought alcohol! ( a.k.a Smirnoff Ice).
We drink the Smirnoff Ice in the hot tub and after one and one half Ices we tell Charlie that our head feels funny which probably means we are dying and should be rushed to the emergency room post haste.
(Coincidentally, that’s likely what I’ll be saying to the husband later tonight when I finally stop drinking and writing and stumble on up to bed. The last time I had this many glasses of wine, I sat wobbly in bed (it should be noted that the phrase “weebles wobble but they don’t fall down” only applies to weebles) and smacked the husband every five seconds to wake him up and shout, “I see four Stephen Colbert’s on t.v.! I must be dying! Get me to the emergency room post haste!” To say that he was not concerned is an understatement of magnificent proportions.)
In conclusion, we didn’t get murdered by creepy old guy nor black out from over-indulgent sugary alcohol consumption. We made it back to campus safe and sound and a week later invited the husband to an on-campus event we were attending.
Two hours before the event we decided we didn’t want to go. Guess which one of us was elected to call and uninvite the husband (who at this point is known as the guy we keep jerking around)?
Come back soon for Part III to find out what happens after I crush the husband’s dreams of spending time with me. Again.
I know you guys all think you know what happens since the husband and I are currently married, and honestly how much of a cliff hanger do I really think this is? But seriously. You will not believe what happens next…
****It should be noted that after reading the first installment, the husband was all, “Ohhhh so you’re writing about how we met.” *Nervous laughter* Me: Yeah, is that a problem? The husband: Er…uh… no, not at all. *shifty eyes, nervous laugh* Clearly the husband remembers something about those days that he DOES NOT want coming out. I don’t remember what that could be, but if I had to guess it has something to do with his gentlemanly scruples (almost) being called into question in Part III.****