I didn't realize that Jen was a person who could break my heart until it was almost too late.
It's not uncommon on nights when we turn off the the lights before we're really ready to go to sleep for Jen to rest her head on my chest and say, "Tell me the story of how we fell in love." For the sake of time, and because I know it's what she wants to hear, I typically start with the events of the day she sent me away cold and shaking at 4 in the morning with a gross misunderstanding of her feelings for me. I tell her that it started when I asked her if she wanted to walk down to our city's arts district for the monthly gallery hop. I remind her how disappointed I was when she asked 10 of her friends from grad school if they wanted to join us. I talk about our group at dinner with 3 chairs too few at our table. A couple other chivalrous folks and I stood around the table. Never knowing what to do with my hands I rested one on the back of Jen's chair at which point she promptly leaned back. When I moved my hand, and she told me not to my heart swelled faster than the Grinch's at the end of the Dr. Seuss classic. I fill Jen in on the parts of the story she didn't know about at the time. I tell her about leaving her after the gallery hop and going to a party down the street from her house, how I told a friend at the party that Jen felt like my surrogate girlfriend, and how that was just fine. I liked my single life, but it was nice to have someone to take the occasional walk with. I tell her how my friend told me to be careful. I tell how I practically sprinted back to her house when she called me at 3 a.m. to see if I was still in the neighborhood and if I might like to stop back by her place before heading home for the night. I ask if she could tell how hard I was shaking as I sat there next to her on her stoop and if it was as cold as I remember or if she thinks I was just nervous. I remind her that I had to ask her a dozen times if she was cold before she finally said that she supposed she was, a little, and agreed to share the quilt I'd gone inside and retrieved. I confess that I have no idea what we talked about, but it was nice sitting there under the quilt with my arm around her. "Then you said, 'I don't want to be another girl who breaks your heart,'" I say. "And that's when I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."
Jen still doesn't believe this. "How could you not know?" she asks. It's true though. It all seems ridiculous now, but honest, I'm the last one to know when I like someone. I normally don't figure it out until someone else points it out or, like in this situation, the object of my affection crushes my heart into a million little pieces
"But you thought I was saying I didn't like you that way," she says so I'll finish the story.
I always rush through the end of the story, since the part about being sent away bravely not crying is the most entertaining part of the story. I continue by telling her how I went home and zipped myself up in my sleeping bag on my bed under 6 blankets and still couldn't get warm enough to fall asleep. When I finally gave up and got out of bed around 9 in the morning I turned on my computer to find an email from Jen, concerned that I may have misunderstood her. She did like me "that way" after all. She just wasn't sure she'd feel that way in 6 days or 6 weeks or 6 month. This was something I could work with. Something I could handle without going into convulsions. One day later we had our first kiss. Five months later we were living together, "and now here we are," I conclue.
It's more than two and a half years later and Jen still feels "that way" about me. I still grin like a school girl with a crush every time she enters a room. We've travelled half the country together and have plans to see the other half. We've picked out furniture together. We've argued over whose turn it is to do the dishes. We've created household budgets. We've supported each other through unemployment and stressful days at work and family crises. I've never been so sure about something as I am about us. I can't wait to spend the next 60 years with this person.
Storytellers
Share your story
It's not uncommon on nights when we turn off the the lights before we're really ready to go to sleep for Jen to rest her head on my chest and say, "Tell me the story of how we fell in love." For the sake of time, and because I know it's what she wants to hear, I typically start with the events of the day she sent me away cold and shaking at 4 in the morning with a gross misunderstanding of her feelings for me. I tell her that it started when I asked her if she wanted to walk down to our city's arts district for the monthly gallery hop. I remind her how disappointed I was when she asked 10 of her friends from grad school if they wanted to join us. I talk about our group at dinner with 3 chairs too few at our table. A couple other chivalrous folks and I stood around the table. Never knowing what to do with my hands I rested one on the back of Jen's chair at which point she promptly leaned back. When I moved my hand, and she told me not to my heart swelled faster than the Grinch's at the end of the Dr. Seuss classic. I fill Jen in on the parts of the story she didn't know about at the time. I tell her about leaving her after the gallery hop and going to a party down the street from her house, how I told a friend at the party that Jen felt like my surrogate girlfriend, and how that was just fine. I liked my single life, but it was nice to have someone to take the occasional walk with. I tell her how my friend told me to be careful. I tell how I practically sprinted back to her house when she called me at 3 a.m. to see if I was still in the neighborhood and if I might like to stop back by her place before heading home for the night. I ask if she could tell how hard I was shaking as I sat there next to her on her stoop and if it was as cold as I remember or if she thinks I was just nervous. I remind her that I had to ask her a dozen times if she was cold before she finally said that she supposed she was, a little, and agreed to share the quilt I'd gone inside and retrieved. I confess that I have no idea what we talked about, but it was nice sitting there under the quilt with my arm around her. "Then you said, 'I don't want to be another girl who breaks your heart,'" I say. "And that's when I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."
Jen still doesn't believe this. "How could you not know?" she asks. It's true though. It all seems ridiculous now, but honest, I'm the last one to know when I like someone. I normally don't figure it out until someone else points it out or, like in this situation, the object of my affection crushes my heart into a million little pieces
"But you thought I was saying I didn't like you that way," she says so I'll finish the story.
I always rush through the end of the story, since the part about being sent away bravely not crying is the most entertaining part of the story. I continue by telling her how I went home and zipped myself up in my sleeping bag on my bed under 6 blankets and still couldn't get warm enough to fall asleep. When I finally gave up and got out of bed around 9 in the morning I turned on my computer to find an email from Jen, concerned that I may have misunderstood her. She did like me "that way" after all. She just wasn't sure she'd feel that way in 6 days or 6 weeks or 6 month. This was something I could work with. Something I could handle without going into convulsions. One day later we had our first kiss. Five months later we were living together, "and now here we are," I conclue.
It's more than two and a half years later and Jen still feels "that way" about me. I still grin like a school girl with a crush every time she enters a room. We've travelled half the country together and have plans to see the other half. We've picked out furniture together. We've argued over whose turn it is to do the dishes. We've created household budgets. We've supported each other through unemployment and stressful days at work and family crises. I've never been so sure about something as I am about us. I can't wait to spend the next 60 years with this person.
Storytellers
Share your story
