How I met my husband…
GRIN # 185
If you like romantic stories, quit reading.
Actually, for years I thought the story of how I met Jerry WAS romantic.
When I was 16 and at Myrtle Beach for beach weekend (okay, the setting could use some work), there was Jerry (mullet intact) on a hotel room balcony yelling, “Love Dove! Love Dove!” down at a bunch of people gathered by the pool.
No one answered Jerry’s tortured cries and, finally, maybe because I was wearing a white bathing suit (Ah, those were the days), I looked up at him and pointed at myself:
Jerry nodded vigorously at this question and motioned for me to come up to the room. I did. And found a bunch of guys beer-bonging (sorry, Mom). Jerry was on the balcony. He looked shocked when he saw me and was, suddenly, shy. But then we started talking…and dating…and the rest is history. That was in 1988.
So. That seems pretty romantic. You could spin it that way anyway: Guy spots girl from afar, bestows name upon her and hence the two live, for the most part, happily ever after.
Except that, later, about two years ago actually, the story of how we met resurfaced, as those types of stories do, and Jerry overheard me telling it.
“Oh, Love Dove,” he said, smiling. “I remember that.”
I smiled back. “What made you think of that name?” I asked, thinking he might mention that wonderful white bathing suit or something equally inspiring.
“It was the name of stripper headlining at some bar in Myrtle Beach. The whole way down there that’s all we kept hearing about: Love Dove. I guess the name just stuck.”
Oh. Well, damn.
And that’s all I have to say about that.