Warning: To those who do not believe in love at first site, or destiny, or extreme compatibility, this story is going to seem a little gagish.  But, it is what it is.

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I mentioned last week that my wife and I just reached the 15 year marriage mark. At the 15 year membership level you have passed the "steel" and "desk sets" gifts and have moved on to not buying anniversary gifts because "the kids are going to Seattle next week and then we've got that trip to Houston, so moneys a little tight. But we could go to dinner."  The first gift I ever purchased for my wife was two pair of really cheap earrings.  I gave them to her in a stairwell of our high school during lunch, just before I asked her to officially be my girlfriend. The date was September 9th, 1987, the day after I turned 16, and two weeks before I got my driver's license. Despite the tacky earrings, she said yes.

But, I am getting ahead of myself.

Back in August of the same year I went to school to register for classes.  At registration I met up with a friend and after we'd both registered, I walked her to her car. On the way out of the school I opened the front door for my companion (always the gentleman) and when I looked ahead I saw that a girl and her mom were coming in so I held it open for them as well.  It was in this passing in a doorway that my life changed forever.  I stole a glance at the girl as she passed and noticed that she was stunning. I smiled, but not too much because I still had crooked teeth then. She smiled back.  And this is where you nay-sayers are going to part ways with me, but I was at the very least totally smitten, if not all the way in love.

I walked my friend to her car, then rushed back into the school looking for the new girl.  I was going to say hello. I didn't care if her mom was there - I had cool hair, and for the first time in my life I was going to take a chance.  I rounded the corner downstairs next to the registration desk, and my heart sank. She was there, surrounded by about ten boys - the cool boys, to be exact.  I was too late.  The walk back outside was a long, painful one, yet somehow I still had hope.

That night I told my mom I had met the girl I was going to marry. (Even though I had not technically spoken with her yet.)

The first day of school I had high hopes of seeing the new girl and introducing myself. (I am sure that the week leading up to the first day of school, I thought of little else but how I would do this. I probably had some Sixteen Candles-inspired introductory line.) But, it was a big school, and I didn't see her all day.  The last class of the day, sixth period, I had Yearbook. Yes, I realize this makes me a dork, but it is who I am. Just as I sat down in my desk in Yearbook class and got my bearings, I looked up and saw the new girl walking in. My heart jumped into my throat. Not only was I going to be in class with the girl of my dreams, but her presence in this particular class meant that she was a nerd, or at least thought she was a nerd, even though she was beautiful. This gave me at least a tiny bit of a chance. Then, as if God or fate or destiny demanded it, she sat down at the desk in front of me.  I still remember thinking that she smelled as beautiful as she looked.

As class started, I scribbled a note on a tiny piece of paper, folded it up, and dropped it over her shoulder.  I'll pause here to say, yes, I know that we were in high school, and that this was her first day as a super-hot new girl in a brand new school. I had no doubt that this was probably the fifteenth or seventieth note she'd had passed to her that day, (or that some boys may have actually spoken to her and not hidden behind a pen and paper) but I needed my one chance, and I took it.  She unfolded the note, read it; (it said "HI") then began scribbling a note of her own.  She folded the paper and dropped it over her shoulder on to my desk. Her note said "HI." 

I wrote back and said "My name is Jay."  She wrote back and said "My name is Carrie."  Then the Yearbook teacher sitting next to us (one in the front of the class talking, one in the back of the class observing) leaned over to me and told me to stop passing notes. Eventually we talked. After a few days another girl in Yearbook asked me “do you like her like her,” and I said "YES."  She invited me to the movies (just some friends going to the movies) the next week, but I gave her bad directions and she could not find my house. My parents were out of town, and I didn't have a car, so I spent the weekend playing Europe’s Carrie (on an actual record player) for 48 hours straight. A week after that we went to a school dance together. It was there we had our first kiss.  Five days later we were officially boyfriend and girlfriend. That was almost 21 years ago, and we've been together ever since. 

I was going to give you my theory on long-term relationship success, but I don't have one. The only reason we've been together for so long is that we've never had a reason to break up.  Every day I wake up I am glad she is right there next to me.  Not right next to me. Sort of, over on her side, far enough away that I can see her, but her knees are not in my back.  I guess maybe the key to a successful relationship is a king-size bed.

Also it helps if you are convinced that your significant other is the most wonderful person in all of the world.  I realize this is sometimes difficult.

*I know some of you have heard this before. But, it was on Featured Questions, and it's one of those stories I like to tell, and I am getting old, so I've begun to repeat myself. 

• Apart from the picture thing (maybe Xanga can remedy that), the posting went well
  
• The text is really random on screen, but my site CSS took care of that
  
• I can't add my currently reading - that is a bummer
  
• I think, so long as I have access to Xanga ( meaning, I am not in prison), I will have limited need for ScribeFire. But, who knows, maybe it is the wave of the future.
  

If you ran up to my cube this morning and yelled “OMG – the building is on fire! Run!” I would say “dude, can you carry me? I played softball last night.”  (By this point, you would be distracted, wondering why I have a microphone in my cube, and we would probably both die from smoke inhalation.)

I don’t normally play softball because if you surveyed 100 limping or broken-ankled men about how they were injured, the number two answer would be “sliding in to second base in a softball game,” which wouldn’t even fit on the board, so it would look more like “slide second/softball.”  (By the way – the number one answer, which no one guessed, would be “step off edge driveway.”)

But, Carrie’s co-workers have a team, and they needed some fill-ins, so I thought “what the heck, it’s only an hour long game. What could go wrong?”  That is usually a phrase that comes just before major back surgery or funerals, but actually nothing went “wrong,” per se.  I played catcher, which means I squatted, bent-kneed, behind home plate for the better part of an hour. I learned later that in this league, the catcher is not really supposed to “catch” the ball, but instead they are supposed to let it drop on a strip of green indoor-outdoor carpet that looked as if it had seen more than its share of golf club heads. But, I caught the balls, and the umpire was OK with that.

Also, we were up to bat a lot (the score was 11-10, so 21 runs in an hour – which is a ton I think) and I hit a lot, which means I ran around the bases a lot. Also, we had a girl that could not run, so I ran for her too.  And, I wasn’t satisfied with singles, so I took second base a couple of times when I probably should not have, further stressing my knees (from the jarring and running and general not sitting on the couch). Combine this with the time I slid through the gravel on my knees (also at second base – I spent the rest of the game picking gravel out of the blood flowing down my shin) and you have a good idea of why I am unable to move this morning.

I had a friend about ten years ago that worked at a John Elway automobile dealership.  He told us once that ever Monday morning John would pull up to his “#7” parking spot, and then spend the next fifteen minutes trying to drag his sore and tired ass out of the car. First the left leg – slowly – then the right leg – ugh, that hurts.  Not that I am comparing playing softball to getting beat on by gigantic men in full pads whose sole purpose is to destroy my mental and physical being, but that’s sort of how I feel today.

I thought, after doing a week of yoga on Wii fit, that I was in better shape than this. The Wii kept saying “Great job, you have Great balance,” in its sexy voice, so I guess I started believing it.” I should be able to run around like a kid for an hour and still be OK, right? I mean, I’m only 36 31. Sigh.

Still, even though I am sore, nothing is broken, so I think that is positive.  And, good news, last night my neighbor asked me if I wanted to play in a neighborhood league starting in August. It’s only $50, so I think I am in. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?

Have a great Friday.

What an exciting Monday morning this has been already. I listened to the news on the way in and learned two things.

First, a bomb went off somewhere in the Middle East.  (Like, the country Middle East, not Indiana) and “though no one has claimed responsibility for the bomb, al-Qaeda has been known to bomb things, so, you know… (wink, wink.) 

There really should be a giant green button on our radios so when we hear a journalist jumping way off course to connect two unrelated points and drawing a completely disconnected conclusion, but doing it so quickly that no one catches it, we should be able to press the giant green button and send 1,000 volts of electricity into said journalist. Or, we could have the button do something else, you can decide.

Second, it is hot somewhere – which is weird because it is June, and usually….wait, no, it is usually hot in June. Though no one has claimed responsibility for the heat, God has been known to make it hot, so, you know… (wink ,wink.)

This may be the booze talking, but I don’t think we’re supposed to talk to each other this much. We have clearly – as a people – run out of interesting things to say to each other, and now we find ourselves repeating the same stories over and over. Is there a reason to record new weather updates every year? What is so unique about this year’s weather that precludes us from using last year’s reports? It is hot. Summer is approaching. We get it.

People who listen to news do so, presumably, so they don’t “miss” anything. Most days there is nothing to miss, but the folks responsible for filling an hour (or three hour) long show feel they still have to put something on, so they just start talking about the weather. I think, as a planet, we should agree that if nothing is going on, we are OK with dead air.  If something happens, they can let us know. Of course, by the time we get in our cars and turn on the radio, chances are we’ve heard about the giant explosion or the assassination already. So, really, what is the point of news radio again?

According to my calendar, it is the Queen’s birthday in Australia (except WA.)  Happy birthday Queen!