So…I’m going to do something completely different. And I’m pretty excited about it. I’m not sure if you will really be interested or even care, but I just can’t help myself.
I’ve been reading the Pioneer Woman book Black Heels and Tractor Wheels. It is a cute love story. As I’ve been reading it, I think of how awesome it is that she took the time to write this story down. I’m sure that her children and grandchildren will treasure it forever.
Above all, as I read, all I can think of is my own love story…with Homey.
For the last week, I’ve been going back and forth on sharing our own love story.
Reasons not to share
- who cares?
- Do I really want to divulge so much of my private life?
- who cares?
Reasons to share
- It would be cool for my children and posterity to know this story
- Relating the story will increase my love for him
- This is a story of love on so many levels – the love God has for us, the love we can have for one another
- It is more than a love story – it is a story about faith, redemption, and miracles
- the world can always use another love story
So…over the next few months (or however long it takes), I’ll post our love story. I hope you like it. If you don’t, then you can always skip over these posts… 🙂
The story of me and Homey starts long ago…back when I was in high school. Before I get your hopes up, I’ll mention that we were not high school sweethearts. In fact, he lived a world away from me. We didn’t exist to one another yet and we wouldn’t for well over ten years. But what happened in High school pointed me in a direction that would eventually lead to Homey. All of this is important, I promise.
Galloping adolescence, a term coined by my seventh grade English teacher, basically sums up what I was afflicted with through my teenage years. Every day, there was a new boy to like, Paul had nice eyes, but Matt had a cute smile, Jake had huge biceps, and there was Mike who played Ice Hockey, and his hair did that really cute flip when he wore a baseball hat. Then there was the lacrosse team. I was pretty sure that being hot was a prerequisite for playing lacrosse.
The funniest thing about this is, I thought I was totally cool – that I was not boy crazy at all. I looked down on the idea of boy-craziness, pious about my professed love of art, music, and culture. I think that only I was tricked by this belief.
Despite my boy-craziness, I was faithful. I loved the gospel. I didn’t date guys who drank, or if I did, then he certainly didn’t drink around me. I was open about my standards. I dressed modestly. I wanted to date a Mormon guy, but being out in Pennsylvania was tough on the dating-only-Mormons scene. I tried my best to find people who were good with high morals. I avoided having a steady boyfriend. Technically I could have dated the boys in my ward*, but, let’s face it, they were like brothers. They weren’t cute in a cute boy to date way, but in a weird sibling-ish way. So, my boy-craziness was relegated to long conversations on the phone with my friend Freckles and Spunky or to journal entries that went on about boys for pages.
Every month or so, our stake had stake dances, and, even though I acted like I hated them, I never missed a single dance. That was my chance to see all of the cute Mormon boys! One ward seemed to be especially gifted when it came to hotties. (Jerrettown ward!) And I always hung out with them at the dances – standing against the wall; acting like I didn’t care. By the time I was seventeen, I had everything figured out. I knew everyone in the stake. I’d go to a dance or to a youth conference and hang out with the regulars: Jake, Ben, Steve, Pete. They were my friends, and they were cute.
One time, I went to a stake** dance and was totally bummed out to see that none of the cute Jerrettown boys were there. What was I going to do? Dance with my “brothers”? Dance with a guy who wasn’t cute? (Yes, I realize this is really petty). However, I stopped fretting after about a minute when I saw this guy…in the distance. He was tall and lean – brown hair, brown eyes. Maybe a slight smattering of freckles. He was super-cute.
It was a Disney-themed dance, and we were encouraged to wear clothes that had Disney characters. There was no way I would do that. I wasn’t into this kind of gimmickry. But I noticed that he was wearing a goofy shirt, which made me like him, even from afar.
“Did you see that cute guy?” I asked my friend, Freckles.
“Yes I did. In the Goofy shirt. And I saw him first,” She responded, matter-of-factly.
“But you like Owl,” I responded.
Without missing a beat, she retorted, “he’s not here.” I didn’t care that she thought this guy was cute. Before I had heard her proclamation I had already determined that I would talk to this guy. And I told her so.
As I mentioned, the dance was Disney themed. In an effort to have us get to know new people, those in charge of the dance had each of us wear the name of a disney character. Each character had a corresponding partner. As a participant, you had to find out your partner – both the character and the person who was wearing the name-tag for that character.
My assigned character was Mrs. Potts.
Mrs. Potts was supposed to dance with Chip. I didn’t know which guy was “Chip,” but I had a real problem with Mrs. Potts being assigned to dance with her son.
Freckles, in the meantime, had done some reconnaissance. She had found out the character assigned to the cute guy in the goofy shirt: Prince Charming. She had also found out he was paired with Cinderella. She found the girl with the Cinderella tag, and made a switch. She was sure to be dancing with Prince Charming that night.
Inwardly, I applauded her effort. But aloud, I said, “I’ll dance with Prince Charming tonight, too. But I don’t need a stupid name-tag.” Freckles looked at me blankly.
“I’m going to ask him.”
The night progressed, and I hadn’t yet gotten the courage up to ask him to dance. Eventually, we were assigned to dance with our disney partners. I don’t remember who I danced with. But after the song, Freckles came up and started telling me all about Prince Charming.
“He plays ice hockey. He goes to Radnor. He lives in the Valley Forge Ward.”
“How long has he been here?” I asked.
“He’s been here forever. He grew up here.”
“No way. Seriously? What’s his name?”
“Well, that’s what he said his name is. After we danced, a friend came up to him, and called him Snoop, too. I’m guessing it’s a nickname. I think it’s kind of cool.”
I hated being jealous, but I was. I told Freckles, “Well, I’ll find out for sure,” and I determined that as soon as the next slow song played, I’d dance with this Prince Charming/Snoop guy.
* Ward – Similar to a parish. The local unit of the church that I went to.
** Stake – A group of wards. Like a diocese.