Mr. Write

Cynics who avoid sentimentality? March on -- the grump is out. Come back next time. Come back June 9.

Ten years ago tonight did not fall on a Monday, but a Wednesday, and I remember that because ten years ago tomorrow my life would change forever on a Thursday night impromptu date at a divey gay bar with the man who would become my husband.

I can tell you, now that I've changed it, that I used to always use June8 as my password for everything. Before I learned about digital safety, it made sense: more than a date, "June 8" has become my mantra. My husband and I use it as shorthand. When one of us is sad, scared, worried, sick, in pain, or joyful, we can simply mention the date, and thereby share our support, comfort, love, and solidarity.

You know those melodramatic movie scenes in hospital delivery rooms? Well, in our real-life version, I breathed June 8, self medicated by repeating it over and over... My husband and I might have taken a pass on birthing classes, but he knew just how to hold my hand and invoke our magic date and help me do whatever it took to bring our child into the world.

On June 7, 2000, J was still the guy I'd just met online by searching a dating site for the keyword "writer." (Sure, he had to be a nonsmoker and live in driving distance, but my priority? I wanted to meet a Word Boy.) After scanning through about 2000 guys, J was among 7 I took the time to email, one of two I gave my phone number, and the only one that I talked to so long the battery died on my cordless land line. After exchanging what felt like real correspondence online for weeks and having a conversation so satisfying it felt like a real date, J and I agreed meet on a Friday June 9 for Indian food. But on Thursday, when he called to firm up the time and place for our plan, he caught me in a bad mood. I explained that I resented how my close friend had just called and talked me into meeting her and her East Coast visitors at a local dive bar, that I was both getting ready to go and simultaneously brooding about how to get out of it so that I would not be up so very late on a school night. The real root of my brooding? I didn't want to be tired the next day when I would finally meet J for the first time. "Don't worry about it," he told me. "Just decide to go out tonight and have fun. If you decide to have a good time, you will." I insisted that the evening had zero potential for fun... unless... unless maybe...

So, J and I spontaneously decided to move up our first date... we both went to the hipster bar that Thursday night on June 8 at 10 to meet my friend and her out-of-towners... I got to the bar first, and saw from the window when J got out of his car and walked toward the door. I knew. We had only exchanged one photo each, but I knew J the minute I saw him. I knew as he walked through the crowd toward me that I would greet him with a hug, and I knew as I hugged him that I would care about him. I knew when he held my hand that night that I might fall for him. I knew when we said goodnight that something important had happened in the 3 hours we spent holding hands, talking. I knew, and he says he knew too. Maybe so -- we have never been apart in any real sense ever since.

Eight years ago tonight was a Friday. We spent it out of town with friends and family who came to celebrate at what we loosely called a rehearsal dinner. The night epitomized what J and I describe as "usness" -- a warm gathering of good people with simple pleasures and heartfelt words. Since we were getting married out of town, I'd discovered the restaurant the way I had found J -- online. I'd found it through an intense search for just the right place by focusing on words... this restaurant was named for the fact that it is part art gallery, part book store. Ecclectic, unusual, perfect. And the perfection continued the next day, as on June 8, 2002, J and I walked ourselves down the aisle to Beatles music, exchanged vows we wrote ourselves, asked our friends and family to speak, and had his dad officially pronounce us husband and wife. A caterer we had never met, chosen for her company's name (Pure Joy) and online reputation, provided a picnic in the nearby park so inspired and delicious no one believed me when I told them how low she dropped her prices when she learned I taught children the same age as her little boy. (She also threw in extra desserts: "Teachers deserve to have amazing weddings with excellent food," she proclaimed, and I agreed!) One of my dear friends had just launched her photography business and shot our wedding for her costs only; just recently her gorgeous work graced major national bridal magazines, but not with photos any more moving than the ones she took on our simple, beautiful, magical day.

Tomorrow is June 8. Tomorrow is my favorite day, my favorite date. Tomorrow marks a decade of "usness" with the man who teaches me how to "decide to go out and have fun." Tomorrow marks the beginning of the journey toward a Rooster and a Peach.

Tomorrow I will not be blogging. I have a date.
Cynics, see you June 9,when we will resume our regularly scheduled ranting.

Happy anniversary, J. Happy June 8, everyone.