After six months of living on my dad’s couch, my mom finally got her shit together and rented an apartment somewhat near where I had gone to grade school. I was 17 at the time and I hadn’t been in school, or doing anything else for that matter, for about two years.
On a whim/out of boredom, I called up a friend from middle school who invited me to a party, for which I would be the ride. I’m not sure if it was technically a frat party but it certainly wasn’t like any party I would ever go to on my own accord. Some jam band played; they sucked. Guys with backwards baseball caps played drinking games against girls with too much make up; they sucked. My friend ditched me to make out with some jock so I sat on a couch by myself for about fifteen grueling minutes before I saw this guy wearing a brown suit with various band bottons on it. I finally got up the nerve to talk to him. There was a bandage on his chin and he told me he had been bit by an iguana. Wasn’t sure if I believed him.
We went for a walk around the block and a black rottweiler ran up to us. She seemed nice enough, though hyper, so despite his warnings, I grabbed her to check her collar and calm her down. She was bleeding, but she was sweet and let us lead her to her home a few houses down. He asked me to marry him.
We’ve been together every day since.
That was four years ago.
The whole thing seemed so surreal- still does. For me, blatantly anti-social, just the fact that I would find myself at a party seemed odd. For him, the “chance” factor is higher. He really had been bit by an iguana earlier that day at that same party. He was actually getting ready to leave and ditch that party for another one but the bite sent him to the hospital. Once his face was glued back together, he figured he might as well go back and tell the pet owner that he didn’t say anything to the hospital and had no plans to press charges or seek relief.
I still haven’t married him, but we have a son together and I will someday when the money is right.
