Photo: I'm on the far right, the one without eyeballs.
The ol' anniversary was fun. I especially liked this one because it included all of my favorite things: hanging at the Esq's parents house, ordering our favorite pizza, seeing a great movie (Religulous), taking a walk, eating pho on a cold day, buying some girl porn, playing video games, and lying around the apartment like two lazy gits in our underwear. At one point, the Esq donned a suit of armor and a battle axe--and I broke out the Mexican wrestling masks--but I assume everyone does that to prepare for sex.
Sometimes an umpire uniform wouldn't be out of line, though. Maybe just having a referee present--an impartial judge who made sure everything was balanced and fair. A dude who could intervene and prevent lockjaw or pulled hamstrings; someone who will protect the interests of both parties and call the match. Think about it. I remember being 19-years old quite clearly, and I remember what 19-year old men had to offer me by way of a sexual revolution: nothing. Wait, does Chlamydia count? (Just kidding, Mom.) Sure, I did some meaningless whoring around like everyone else, but luckily I don't have any permanent reminders. Except for, you know, the shame and crying in the shower and cutting myself, but no biggie--"just another Tuesday!" as I always say.
Using Subway, my place of tenuous employment, as a dating pool couldn't have helped. WINNERS, ALL. If I could go back in time and talk to my 19-year old self, I wouldn't even say anything, I would just punch my young self in the face and hope I got the message. Then I would point at the drug dealer I was dating at the time and say WHAT WAS I THINKING--NOT ONE ORGASM AND YOUR WEED FUCKING SUCKED. "I think it's Kona Gold", MY ASS. I think he's still in prison, actually, so this scenario just got ten thousand times better.
None of this matters, since I have Smarty McSmarterson for a partner now. The way we met is truly amazing--I've told the story so many times, you guys can probably recite it from memory, but here goes: while I was jogging--training for a marathon, actually--I ran past a building that was on fire. I could hear the ambulances, and saw the firetrucks screaming down the street, so I stopped to see what I could do. All of a sudden, the building door opened and through the flames, I could see the Esq running with a newborn baby in one hand and a puppy in the other--OH MY GOD, HE WAS SAVING THEM FROM THE FIRE. Also, the baby had Down's Syndrome. And the puppy's name was Jesus.
I didn't say this story was going to be factual, but I did say it was truly amazing; I decided that our story wasn't exciting enough, so I embellished it a bit. Which parts were embellished, you ask? Well, here are the facts: I was there. The Esq was there. And there was a building. Those are the 'factual elements' to the story. The point is: we met, and have put those Lucha Libre masks to good use ever since.
The real story: The Esq and I met at Mamounia on Capital Hill (in Seattle) at a mutual friend's birthday party. Yawn. But it was kind of a goth party, so that was interesting--and with our Moroccan food came a
1. Cute. Very well-dressed.
2. Too young for me. Way.
3. Single, based on the gold-rimmed glasses; those would be the first thing to go if we were dating.
#1 was obvious, #2 was unfortunate, and #3 told me I was interested, regardless of age or glasses. Actually, those glasses were taken out of rotation before we hit three months of dating, I'm not kidding. Sadly, I lost my cool ones and had to resort back to the ones that are currently perched on my very resentful face, right around the time I met him. So the spectacle snobbery bit me in the ass after all: optical karma. If you'd like to see the blog I wrote the night I met the Esq, check it out here.
...and they lived happily ever after, in their Lucha Libre masks, and not much else.