FINDING THE RIGHT WOMAN

Rarely does shopping for air-powered firearms at a mega-retailer change your life, but it happened to me. I, Andrew “Drew” Lloyd, then a twenty-five-year-old discount shopper and average marksman, was with my best friend, Andy Matthews, and was not hunting for love. That particular day, Andy had been tasked by his parents to obtain a BB gun to help scare deer from his parents’ flowerbeds. The night before, I, the ever-ready accomplice in questionable behavior, weighed my options for that Saturday and agreed to join him for a jaunt to the Wal-Mart armory. As we passed through the personal care section, Andy spotted Christa, one of his female coworkers, in the shampoo aisle. She was slightly hungover and wearing a white T-shirt. She was my future wife, although I didn’t know it yet. I could describe her as similar to Rudy of Notre Dame and theatrical fame—five foot nothing, one hundred and nothing pounds, with no hope of playing defensive line in the NFL. It is easier to say she was a brunette beauty with a liberally displayed smile which, even with its liberal display, was worth years of work to earn.

I am not even certain that Andy introduced us, but I am certain he disclosed our mission. I most likely said, “Nice to meet you; we’re shopping for guns.” (I hope I adjusted myself sometime during the exchange to emphasize how manly an activity that was.)

I don’t think she noticed the manliness of the gesture or the unmanliness of grown men shopping for BB guns. I didn’t hold it against her that she was hungover, as I was certainly not under the influence the night before, when I agreed to shop for BB guns on a Saturday morning. This may not have been the best first impression for me to make, but as we were interconnected through Andy’s social network, we crossed paths in Bloomington several times over the following months.

Bloomington itself is an eclectic mix for southern Indiana, consisting of one-third student, one-third redneck, and one-third other. The most common topic of conversation is the Indiana University men’s basketball team. Growing up, I had my dad post the final scores on my door when games went past my bedtime. All my friends had a basketball goal somewhere at their homes. Hoops are harder to miss than to find in Bloomington. It is John Mellencamp’s quintessential small town. In fact, Andy is in the “Small Town” video, filmed while at Bobby Knight’s basketball camp.

My days as a private landscaping enforcer were soon behind me, but I still had many talents to showcase to woo Christa. Fortunately, I had a chance to display some of my better features at our next interaction at Suburban Lanes, a bowling alley in Bloomington, complete with shared shoes, shared balls, and shared secondhand smoke. The establishment has two pool tables that double as changing tables for single, barely legal parents maintaining a social life, along with actual lockers in the bathrooms—I assume for storing the diaper bag when you’re on the lanes.

That evening Christa was not hungover, and I was not in search of firearms, a situation beneficial to us both. She used her sense of humor and double-digit bowling skills to further enchant me, and I used my ability to read the mind of anyone wearing animal print to, hopefully, appeal to her.

I pointed to a damsel in a tiger-print miniskirt and, in my best twenty-three-going-on-thirty-six-year-old smoker’s voice, said, “Suzy may have had Trent’s first baby, but her ass shows it. This kitty’s gonna come out tonight. He won’t know what hit him.” (A small roar and tiger claw motion were added for emphasis.)

“I would have gone with leopard print,” Christa replied.

“And that’s why you’re one unwanted pregnancy behind.”

Now I was the smitten kitten, as she had just revealed two very appealing characteristics, spontaneous wit and knowledge of the fur-based animal kingdom. There is no more suitable animal print for stealing a questionably desirable man than leopard.

That fun-filled evening led to a mutual decision to meet at a predetermined locale to eat and/or drink at a set time in the future. I think this is commonly known as a date. The reason I am not certain is that she claims we have only had three dates—total. I personally swear the total is at least four.

Throughout all our time together, there has only been one date we both formally recognized. Therefore, by default, it was our first date. It was Valentine’s Day, 2000. Sort of.

“I made you a Valentine’s Day card and would like to take you out for dinner, but not today. That would be a lot of pressure, and it might be hard to get a table,” I said back then, summarizing the feelings I’d developed over several months of informal gatherings and conversations.

“I’m swooning,” Christa replied.

“Was it the high-quality copy paper I used for your card? I tried to make a sharp crease,” I said, quickly moving away from exposing any feelings I might have had at that moment.

After reviewing the card, she agreed that a formal date would be nice and was at least willing to play along with my avoidance of the expectations raised by having it on Valentine’s Day. So on February 16, 2000, we had our first and only certifiable date at Puccini’s, an Italian restaurant in Bloomington. Not surrounded by everyone’s best Valentine’s Day behavior, I probably came off modestly civilized. We remained inseparable afterwards, so I consider it a rousing success. We still celebrate the day annually.

Being with Christa quickly began to fill every free moment of my time. It was a mutually agreeable type of time filling, not the breaking-in-and-hiding-in-the-storage-closet-stalking-the-pretty-girl type, that I find hinders most relationships. We spent countless hours sharing the Papasan chair in her apartment living room, watching television or movies, and inventing secret handshakes.

I told her I loved her for the first time with the statement, “I want to say ‘I love you,’ but you smell so much like Noxzema, it’s distracting.” Yes, every emotional statement that made its way out of me came with a humor-based safety net.

The vast majority of our “formally arranged” time together in Bloomington was spent in bars or at friends’ houses. Reservations weren’t required, which is why she swears we’ve only had three dates. Sometimes I called ahead; still no credit. On the other hand, she thinks I took forever to propose. Who proposes after just three dates?

Our calendar-based courtship lasted forty-six months, so we averaged slightly less than one date per year. Who waits forty-six months to propose when you know she’s the one after three dates? I am guilty on both charges.

Sometimes she is the peanut butter to my jelly.

For example, one day I asked, “Do you like pizza?”

“Yes,” she replied.

I have never felt such a bond.

Other times she is the sunlight to my mayonnaise.

Just moments later, I asked her, “What do you want to drink with the pizza?”

“Diet Coke,” she replied.

“I can’t kiss you after something like that.”

 I quickly apologized and said I would kiss her regardless of her beverage choice.

Christa says fate brought us together, that our paths were meant to cross and cross in a place such as Wal-Mart’s shampoo aisle, where it is impossible to contest destiny. On the one hand, I can see her point. I feel I could stand in the Wal-Mart shampoo aisle for a decade and never see an attractive female. On the other hand, I like to point out that the likelihood of our meeting somewhere was high, due to the proximity of our individual residences and the fact that we both knew Andy. But fate is not a numbers-based science, so these facts are quickly dismissed. I don’t know if fate is space- and time- specific. Would our relationship have fizzled if we had met in Wal-Mart’s women’s restroom instead? It probably would have depended upon the location of my pants and hands.

Either way, I am extremely lucky to have found her. I thought finding her, The One, would be the hardest thing to do. I also thought taking the big step of proposing would take some nerve and fortitude, but after that, I would sail smoothly into husbandry. But sadly, my friends, it was the nine months from “Will You?” to “I Do.”  that was the greatest challenge. And that challenge stemmed, not from my fiancée, but from everything else that transpired from engagement to marriage. I started with the simple advice, “Just agree to everything she says, and you’ll do fine.” What I ended with takes a book to describe.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival