How It All Got Started...

I was recently reminded of why I married Mr. Man. And why I call him Mr. Man.

We had started dating for a few weeks when my sister, living a few hours away, had a fire in her apartment. I immediately decided to head out and help her in any way I could, and (the not quite) Mr. jumped in and offered to drive.

Up until then, I had not had the opportunity to open up about myself, perhaps to be a bit mysterious, perhaps because of trust issues, but all of sudden, on the verge of rescuing my little sister, I felt bold enough to talk about myself.

And talk. And talk. And talk some more.

So by the time we had finished our three hour trip, I felt very satisfied with myself in all I had shared with my new boyfriend. But much to my dismay, and disbelief, he turned and looked at me and apologized, "I'm so sorry, I didn't hear anything you said. You see I've been so nervous driving that I had to concentrate on the road." As he gets out of the car, the back of his t-shirt is completely soaked with sweat. Oh, dear. Apparently, this was the first time he had driven on a major highway since a near fatal accident a few years back. Oh, Mr. Man!

So then, we find my sister. Her roommate had left a candle burning in the apartment and while she was out shopping, the apartment caught fire. There was my little sis, reeking with smoke, in shock, and clutching this brand new purse like it was the only thing she had in the world.

First we got her fed, and then went to a local store to get her some things. A watch, I recall, was one of the items. The cashier was wrinkling up her nose as she rang through the items and casually asked if we smelled smoke. "It's me!! My house burnt down!!" my sister retorted, and even though I was laughing, thankful for the comic relief, the cashier was so embarrassed she had someone come and replace her.

When we got back to the apartment, "smokey" remembered her things were, in fact, stacked in the garage, but she couldn't get the door open. She and I reefed on that door latch, wiggling, pulling, pushing, and so fed up that we could cry, when Mr, with the now-dry t-shirt magically lifts the garage door open.

"Smokey" and I stood there with our mouths open, and I'm pretty sure she whispered "my hero."

He gave us a crooked smile, and said, "you just had to push on the top a bit."

But that was it. He was in. He was it.

My Mr. Man.

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So despite all of the crappy days we've had, the broken shovels, the broken strollers, the broken vans, the broken furnace, the broken cars, the broken toys and jewelry, the crappy dog, and the cat that got hit by a car, Mr. and I have this story to remind us how it all got started. Happy Thanksgiving... kind of.