Same SideS Text Emily Reese Photos Amy Hunter
Smitten, Stricken and Afflicted Devon was actually the very first guy who ever asked me out on an honestto-Pete date. It is pathetic to think that I was at the old maid age of 21. So pathetic. The simple act of asking me, “Wanna go catch a movie?” caused me to love him and picture myself with an apron, pearls and a vacuum, kissing his cheek as he walked out the front door to his industrious, well-paying job.
M
y conservative Christian upbringing in the Midwest somehow made my parents think that a good and proper age to start dating would be after I was 16. Though they never mentioned betrothment, I wouldn’t have put it past them. While I understand the wisdom in this dating rule since I now have my own kids (actually 30 is a better age), I hated that limitation. The older guys always liked me because I was a tall, cornfed Aryan chick by 14, but I wasn’t allowed to go out with them. By the time I was 16, all of the shrimpy short guys my age were finally hitting puberty, were mostly idiots and into the cute petite cheerleaders. I basically never had the chance to have a boyfriend before I got to college. Plus, I was a basketball player and a tough gal, so I think those scrawny little boys were intimidated by me. Needless to say, the confidence I had in attracting the male population was nil. This was the case until Devon and I went to that movie. By the time we left the movie to drive to the Twisted Lizard Pub in Kansas City to meet up with our Applebuddy co-workers we served tables with, I was smitten. That is, until his piece of crap car stopped at the busiest intersection of downtown K.C. It all happened in an instant. He slammed the car in “park” position, opened his door and like lightening he ran out of the car. My first thought? Wha? My second thought? If this guy expects me to get out of the automobile and do a Chinese Fire Drill, I’m going to abandon his tuchas right here, right now. What an idiot. 78 Reno Tahoe Tonight
But you know what he did? He sprinted across the street, threw money at this homeless guy selling flowers, grabbed a single rose and ran back to the car before the light turned green. He handed me the rose and smiled as he said, “You are beautiful, Emily.” My third thought? I want to have his babies. Maybe tomorrow, even. Seriously. That actually went through my mind. I was completely stricken by love for this man. Not only was he handsome, with amazing green eyes, dressed stylish, had a wit to match any late-night talk show host, and was chivalrous to a T, he thought I was b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l. Well done, Devon. Well done. The rest of our courtship was filled with romance (he even wrote me poetry on occasion), heartfelt discussions, fun trips, wonderful boudoir scenes, laughter, and nights by the fireplace. It was so easy to fall in love with him. He is an honest man, a charmer, intelligent, a go-getter and nice to everyone. His religious and conservative views were in league with mine, and he even discussed going into politics with the Republican Party at some point. Imagine me, the Senator’s wife! It didn’t hurt that he was my biggest fan in the basketball arena while I played on the court in college. I had my very own groupie. In fact, he was almost obnoxious. I could hear him constantly, cheering me on and heckling the refs, especially because he hollered quite effectively through the plastic megaphone he brought with him to every game. I will tell you, if he had decided to take off his shirt and paint his chest with our team’s colors and my number, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Fortunately, he was too hairy for that. Thank God.