Good morning to me!
Going through yesterday’s slices of life, I kept reading ones about meet-cute stories. I thought it was all some weird coincidence that people were all writing about it. Did I miss something? Was that the posted inspiration? I went back and checked – nope. Finally, I read one that referenced the original meet-cute story that was shared, the reason why I kept reading about people’s cute love story meets.
From a Gen-z (ish) perspective, meet-cutes are all the rage these days. Everyone wants an original meet-cute instead of admitting to having met on a dating app. You met on hinge? No you didn’t, at least that’s not the story you make up to your parents. You met in the Trader Joe’s line, and he saved your spot when you ran to get an onion that you need for dinner tonight!
I am working from home all week, which is a nice way to catch up on sleep. I’ve been lights out by 10:30, and waking up naturally around 7:30. I’ve also been trying to leave my phone on Do Not Disturb next to my bed while I roam about and have my coffee. So this morning, around 7:45, I checked my phone for the first time. Message from Mom.
“___ just came up in my photo memories. Lol. Wtf!!?” She attached the screenshot.
“At least he’s cute.”
“But you’re way cuter.”
I responded: “Hahaha! What a thing to wake up to!”
She told me sorry and to slice about it. Here goes:
It got me thinking that although my relationship with ___ tanked (in a funny, non-traumatic way actually), we did have what everyone is referring to as a meet-cute.
I worked at a yacht club as a launch driver/deck-hand/manager during the summers of college. It was a great job. I spent the days outside driving boats, getting tan, making a lot of money, and meeting really cool people from all over the place on really nice boats. I also met some a$$holes. Anywho, part of the job is also watching the docks so no non-member boats use it. I see a small – really small – boat encroaching on the dock, no burgee in sight. I could tell from my watch post that there was a whole slew of my-aged-boys on board. I meandered over and leaned against the wooden posts, watching. I watched them fail miserably trying to dock, entirely missing. It’s a big dock. Hard to miss. Embarrassing to miss. They tried again, with the bow perpendicular this time. Missed.
“You guys really have this down to a science,” I called. Their heads whipped around, finally spotting that they had an audience. The captain’s face reddened immediately as the boat bounced off the dock a third time.
“Throw me a line, I’ll pull you in,” I said. The line was thrown –badly– as I threw a –perfect– knot over the cleat. I learned this trick from a friend where you can do it standing up, and I had been practicing it all summer. It paid off.
“Where are you guys from? Do you have a burgee?” He scrambled to find the flag in the little cabinet on board, and pulled out a tattered Stonington burgee. None of them had said a single word yet.
“Okay, cool, and just come upstairs to sign in when you’re all squared away.” The seven boys started disembarking as I walked away.
They came back the next day. I met them down on the dock and gave some pointers for how to properly dock a boat. They signed in again.
The next day, they showed up again, only three of them this time. They followed me upstairs to sign in this time, asking a couple of questions. I learned their names, where they were in college, the basics. They signed in. That day, before I left for Colorado to visit my sister, I went through the paperwork and logs. The sign in sheet was full and needed to be replaced. It was jumbled with notes, sloppy handwriting, and drawings. The first time the boys signed in, a number was next to their name and yacht club affiliation. I hadn’t thought anything of it, just that it was a responsible thing to do. A lot of people leave their numbers in case something happens and we need to get ahold of the owner. That number had been circled at least four times, with notes surrounding it, “call me,” “text me,” “I’m feeling rejected,” and more. Funny, a bit inappropriate, and embarrassing for me all at once.
When I got to Colorado and filled my sister in, she was dying. “You have to text him,” she said. “Absolutely not,” I said.
No worries, because he kept showing up all summer. The next time he was alone, and I went to help tie up. Within two minutes, he looked right at me and goes, “You found all my notes, didn’t you?” This time, I was the quiet one, my eyes wide. Was I that obvious? I laughed though, to my credit, and admitted defeat.
“And you still didn’t text. Ouch!” He asked where I had been for the last week, I told him I was in Colorado, and he asked – in person – for my number. I conceded it, and after receiving an admittedly very funny first text, that was that.
The Bam Cam 