It should come as no surprise that I’m getting frustrated by the dating scene and some of the bizarre weirdos I have encountered in recent months. But I am always hopeful. I want to believe that every tale has a happily ever after and it’s only a matter of time until my knight in shining armour whisks me off into the sunset. But really I’m not picky. I’ll take a guy with all his hair and teeth, a good sense of humor, and a love of music.
With that in mind I decided to turn it over to some of my readers. I thought it would be encouraging for the single ladies (and men!) out there to read some romantic stories from the many beautiful women I have come to know and love over the course of my blogging journey. Some are in committed relationships, some are married, and all have wonderful stories to share. This week’s post comes from The Blond Duck herself from A Duck in Her Pond. I am drawn to her bubbly personality, imaginative stories, and zest for life. Also, this is just an incredibly sweet tale. Go. Follow her. You won’t regret it!
It was the best love story I’d ever wrote, but I’d never touched a pen or keyboard.
It started as all love stories do, on a grey February day in the doldrums of winter. It was a Sunday the second semester of my freshman year, the year when you want to be grown up and achieve things but really long for your mother’s fettuccine alfredo and old room. Bored and restless, I was thrilled when some guy friends invited me to “lunch” at Jason’s Deli at 4 p.m. I wasn’t hungry, but I was less hungry for the gym. I had sworn off boys for dating, and the extra freshman fifteen around my hips showed I was more interested in ice cream than a relationship. In an old grey t-shirt and black yoga pants with no mascara or makeup, I met them there.
The second I saw him, I wished I’d put on mascara.
He was wearing a worn green Baylor baseball cap, his frayed jeans edging over his boots as he climbed out of a Chevy Silverado truck. A frat boy, I thought in disgust. Great.
Still, I scooted closer to him at lunch.
And I scooted even closer when during a heated debate over sororities and fraternities, he declared himself a staunch individual.
And when he put his hand on my arm and said, “I like this girl,” I was fascinated. I was hooked. I needed to know more, to know him.
Over the next month, we exchanged instant messages and went out with friends. He took me to his birthday dinner and bought me a burger, I bought him a new hat when I lost his.
One night, we went swimming and hopped straight in his truck, driving around until 4 a.m. With my feet on the dashboard, my face bare, I sang along with him to Pat Green as I ate ice cream in the cool spring air blasting through the windows. That night, he asked me to be his girlfriend, saying he would do anything to make me happy.
For the past eight years, he has. For the past eight years, whenever the spring sets in and the days get warm with the nights cool, I think of our first kiss, of all the nights we drove around in his old truck.
Eight years later, he still loves me in an old grey shirt, with no mascara and yoga pants.
And I’m still curious.