By Ann's Rants

 
Once in a while someone will ask me about the moment I first met my husband—Did I know he was the one.
 
No, and yes.
 
We met at a musical theater in the Rocky Mountains. I spent the summer performing in a babushka and a shmate some nights, and fishnets and a ridiculous octogenarian platinum wig the others. Sex-ay! He played drums, and it’s a good thing. Had his job not kept his hands occupied, he very well may have committed musical hari kari with his drumsticks. For a rock musician, playing “If I were a Rich Man” and “Anything Goes” ad nauseum amounts to musical waterboarding.
 
The actors arrived a week before the musicians were called. I remember seeing his unflattering headshot posted on the bulletin board and resigning myself to that looks like someone I’d end up with. I’d had two solid relationships during college, and both occurred as a result of persistence by really nice guys, that I eventually found myself sufficiently attracted to. No fireworks occurred, both guys just wore me down with their sweet perseverance. Now I wanted something different.. After just breaking free from the warm and cuddly chains of the most recent boyfriend, I felt determined to spend one crazy summer “playing the field.” Apparently, my version of playing the field resulted in landing a future husband not two weeks later.
 
I can’t describe the first moment we met as “love at first sight” but he caught my attention immediately. First of all, he appeared nothing like his horrible, grainy, poofy-haired photo. Second of all, he looked so different than any other guy I knew. He stood very tall and skinny, with awesome strawberry-reddish-brown hair in a ponytail. Retro glasses framed his blue eyes. He fascinated me. A moment after his presence jolted me mid-plie, our director stopped everything--running over to embrace him, and screaming his name with her oddly-girlish voice “BEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNN!!!” He returned her hug graciously, but I could tell he felt just as alarmed by her welcome as the rest of us. I laughed inwardly.
 
Ben tells the story of that same moment he walked into the theater. He noticed me immediatiely--up on stage learning a dance combination—and vague thoughts about our future flashed through his mind. A quiet hum of electricity reverberated between us, bizarrely interrupted by the ever loud, ridiculously excited Victoria Jackson yelp of our beloved director.
 
For me, love followed shortly thereafter, and largely due to the fact that He. Made. Me. Laugh. I recall two separate occasions where his sense of humor nudged me out of the moment, and caused me to consider him with a seriousness that I hadn’t expected. His quiet, kind demeanor made our shared sensibility about funny a delightful surprise.
He threw me—well other actors physically threw me in the air lindee-hop style—but his brand of humor threw me over a simple crush and into thoughts of relationship potential.
 
One conversation about The Onion—the one in which we cracked up over the same articles published months if not years prior, probably opened my eyes as wide physically to him as it did my mind and heart. We laughed and laughed over Jim Anchower,  A Room of Jean's Own  and Smoove B... I was impressed. Meeting funny guys in theater became commonplace for me, but their humor often crossed the line of too loud, too much, and too needy. Ben doled out his humor with such a light and unexpected touch, it made me greedy for more.
 
I don’t remember which happened first, but the other defining moment for my falling for “Ben the drummer” occurred on a hike at a nearby waterfall. Ben, myself, and my roommate Jennifer meandered around Adams’ Falls narrow paths in single-file. Jen regaled us with her stories of working the renaissance fair in her hometown, as well as “Fright Fest” at Six Flags theme park. Clearly, she took her work in both realms seriously, while I kept desperately searching for unintentional-humor validation from somewhere. I began to realize that Ben’s slow peppering of questions was drawing out more and more delicious detail from Jen. Wait, did you say the ring master’s name was Damien? Oh, no Dante—of course Dante. And what did you sell out of your cauldron when you played Lillith the Black Widow? Oh, of course, fried mushrooms. Right. Righhht.
 
So, at the time I didn’t know he was The One, but I spent an inordinate amount of time for a 22-year-old daydreaming about the terrific father-potential I saw in him, and thinking to myself that he was the first guy I dated that I couldn’t say for sure I wouldn’t marry. In retrospect? I knew. I knew enough to confess my love to him during a glorious meteor shower one night we camped in Rocky Mountain National Park. He knew enough to find reason to move to Chicago when Summerstock ended—smartly citing his own reasons (of a friend needing both a roommate and a drummer) to legitimatize his move rather than simply following me.
 
Thirteen years ago this very week, we’d become an item. Ten years of marriage, several careers, and two children later these same qualities of his kindness and humor serve as anchors for our relationship when it inevitably beings to drift into hostile waters. The awesome hair and blue eyes help too.

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Ann's Rants is one of the first blogs I came across that I started reading on a regular basis and she's first on blog list, not only because I try to keep some alphabetal order there but because she's just  #1 all around. I love her blog because I never know what I'm going to find on it, but I know it's going to be good.