With my 1-year wedding anniversary on the horizon, I thought I’d dedicate this post to my husband, M. After all (as M so humbly reminds me), my blog is called emmandbee, and M was (how can I forget), why I started writing it in the first place.
The Coles’ Notes version of our story is this: I threw M away; pulled him out of the garbage; we met; fell in love; moved in together; got married.
The slightly expanded version is this: M and I were matched on my 42nd birthday on eHarmony. Yup, that eHarmony. I woke up like a kid on Christmas morning, excited to see my matches. I mean, come on! What a story! Matched with the man of my dreams on my birthday?!
M got in touch right away. I looked at his profile—IT nerd, cute, nice smile, grey hair, kind of chubby. Not the type of guy I usually went with (though I’ve always had a soft spot for nerds). I thought about it then closed him.
Two months later, I was stuck in a one-date-with-no-spark cycle, so I decided something needed to change. I needed to change. I waded through my pool of literally hundreds (can’t say e-Harmony doesn’t send you some) of deleted matches, and stopped on M. I thought, maybe just maybe, if I took a chance on someone outside of my usual, maybe my unusual would surprise me.
My first date with M lasted about 13 hours. We’ve basically been together ever since.
A few months after that epic first date, M confided that after he dropped me off he farted for about 5 minutes straight. That’s right ladies, he’s all mine!
M has a penchant for embellishing stories—an hour becomes three, a drizzle becomes a storm, you get the idea. Those of us closest to him know that with each re-telling, the details of a story will amplify to some degree. I’m not entirely sure why. Probably an offshoot of the same thing that takes us to Emerge! on a regular basis—a tendency towards the dramatic.
Apparently, M’s dad was a storyteller too, and loved holding court at his regular breakfast gatherings. After we met, M spun this idea off into “PatioFridays,” where all our friends have an open invitation to gather for end-of-week drinks. In spite of a childhood spent mostly alone because he was teased incessantly for stuttering, M has become the most social, affable fellow. While I tend to keep my worlds separate, M’s more like, everyone in the pool! because he knows what it feels like to be left out.
A selection of M-isms…
“Under the shirt! Under the shirt! For God’s sake, we’re married!”
- What M said, when I scratched his back on top of his T-shirt.
“I had a bad day, and vegetables will just make it worse.”
- What M said, when I suggested a salad with dinner.
- What M said, when I tried to remember the BMO commercial where the couple can’t decide between Chinese and Mexican food. The actual answer was Chexican.
“kl%y ahk;d uetque, bla:atlllliugn .Naeufnfdooo.”
- What M sounds like when he’s speaking French to his French colleagues.
“I love your face.”
- What M says to me every day.