Call me narcissist if you must but this blog is all about ME. I have another blog about my kids, whom I love and adore writing about. But I was Nicole a long time before I was mom and I don't intend to give up being Nicole overnight.
You can read all about my kids at Naptime Optional.
Or you can follow along on our Arizona adventure on my 365 project blog.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
When I knew he was Mr. Right
So maybe you could think of this as my sisterly advice post. And my advice is this: knowing when you know is different for everybody, so nobody can really tell you when you'll know, you'll just know. How's that for crystal clear.
But if it helps any I'll tell you how I knew. My story isn't near as romantic as Karen's, who was puking her guts out on the bathroom floor when she realized she had found "the one". But almost.
See, I have my dad's genetics when it comes to hair. And I'm not just talking about the color. I mean he has a LOT of hair. (sorry dad, it's true.) My cousin's used to call him Uncy Bear. He'll try to tell you that it's because his name is Blair, and they couldn't say it correctly. But the truth is, it was because he's downright hairy. And so am I. I shave my legs in the morning and have a 5 o'clock shadow by noon.
So, it probably won't surprise you that on occasion (okay, ALL THE TIME) I get these stray red hairs growing on my neck. It's something I usually quite mortified by and I do my best to keep them plucked. But neck hair is tricky. Sometimes it grows just out of sight. You know it's there, you can feel it there, but you can't turn your eyes far enough in your head to see it well enough to pluck it.
Can you guess where this is going yet?
Well, I had one of those pesky neck hairs once and I did something that surprised even me. For some reason I still don't understand I was desperate enough to get that hair that when Mike showed up at my door while I was still primping for our date, I handed him the tweezers and asked him to pluck it for me! And, shockingly, I wasn't utterly and completely embarrassed. I was okay with letting him know that I had unsightly neck hair. I was comfortable with him knowing this embarrassing fact about me. And, to add to the shock and awe, he didn't act as if he was utterly and completely repulsed. He simply took the tweezers, plucked the hair, and then kissed me.
I wasn't embarrassed. He wasn't repulsed. It had to be true love!
Would you call that love at first pluck?