We met on Nov. 23, 1984. I was barely 17, and Mike was 20. My closest friend at the time had invited me to come to her boyfriend's birthday party, and my future husband was a guest of her boyfriend as well. Ironically, my friend had tried to fix us up before. But it was the '80s, the decade of hair bands, and I wasn't at all interested in dating someone in the military who wouldn't have the long, glorious locks of my romantic ideal.
The basement apartment, where the party was held, was across the street from where my grandmother lived, something I took as a sign of serendipity later. The room was full of army guys, and a little overwhelming for a 17-year old at her first party of this sort.
Our eyes met across the room, where he was sitting on a footstool rolling a joint, and he asked me if he could sit in the empty spot next to me. I recall him being very sincere and charming. By the end of the evening, he had sworn he would never lie to me. Why on earth I believed that, I'll never know. The naivety of youth, I suppose, and wishful thinking. But I did. I'm the kind of person who says what they mean and means what they say, and it never occurred to me that there was any other way of being.
Some of the other guys at the party were unhappy that Mike was monopolizing my company, and they told him it was time for him to go. Mike had always been outside of this group, a place he often found himself. He never quite felt like he fit in anywhere. But anyway, before he was ushered out the door, he asked for my phone number, writing it on a package of matches as he left.
Inexperienced with drinking, being the good Mormon girl that I was, I ended up waayyy too drunk at that party, with no one looking out for me. It was then that I learned three valuable lessons:
1. Don't let other people mix your drinks.
2. Only drink with people you trust.
3. Rye is disgusting going down, and worse coming back up.
I ended up in a compromising position with another of the men attending the party. I came to in a bedroom with him on top of me while I was throwing up on him. That messy insistance of the rye coming back up saved me from losing my virginity without my consent that night. I guess I should be grateful for the rye, really. I cannot stand the smell of it to this day.
The offender was extremely unhappy about being thrown up on. It was a result of this commotion that my friend found me, cleaned me up and helped me get home, though that part is a blur to me. If that had been in the age of todays cell phone cameras and social media, my life would have been over. I would have been one of the unfortunate girls that we see today who's poor judgement at the mercy of unscrupulous fiends costs them dearly with no end. I'm very grateful that wasn't the case for me.
In any event, Mike did call me. It must have been the next day, but I don't remember, and can't imagine that I would have been in any shape to hold a conversation. Perhaps the vigour of youth, and having deposited the contents of my stomach the previous evening on the man who deserved it, gave my body the opportunity for a speedy recovery.
I don't remember how the conversation went, but Mike asked me out and we had our first date the next weekend, Nov. 30th, 1984. And the rest, was history.
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