The husband and I don’t generally talk about where we met. Most people assume that, since we’ve been together since high school, we must have gone to high school together.

Yeah. Not so much.

I was working at McDonald’s. Drive-thru diva extraordinaire. He was hired on as a grill boy. Burger flipper. Not exactly a romantic venue to meet in. No locking of the eyes across the crowded room here thankyouverymuch.

I couldn’t remember his name for 2 weeks. We flirted back and forth, every time we worked together, for about 6 months or so.

Reluctant, we were.

Okay. I was reluctant, and socially awkward. So he wasn’t sure I was interested.

I wasn’t sure I was interested. I take that back. I was mostly definitely interested, with all the emotionality and physicality that 16-going-on-17 year old hormones can muster. But I thought I shouldn’t be interested.

I was on the cusp at that point. Dancing the line between hard-core religiousity, and wild child syndrome. I saw him as a “bad boy”. And perhaps, compared to the other members of my Sunday School class, perhaps he was.

Okay, compared to them? Yeah, he was a bad boy, a rebel, a wild card. But he really wasn’t THAT much of a badass.

So. Met at McDonald’s. Flirted for six months. AND I bailed on our first date (oh yes, I was at least as smooth then as I am now. At least.)

It’s no wonder he married me.

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Tags: life, marriage, McDonald, relationships