Neverending Storeeeey

Thanks for all the questions, homies. Let’s start with this. Every time any one of ya’ll has asked me how Nordic Boy and I got together, I demurely say that I will tell you another time. Either that or I flat out ignore the request. Why is this? What sort of sordid tale am I trying to cover up? Did we meet on a secret CIA mission? Did we meet on the Lost island and are now under a gag order from Bug-Eyed Ben? What IS IT?

Nothing so exciting as that. The reason that I haven’t told the story is because it’s not pithy. Most people I know, it seems, have these concise, cute little stories of how they met their honeys. “Oh, we met at the Starbucks where he accidentally picked up my Mocha Choca Lata Ya Ya by accident.” Who are you people, that you have the little stories that you can tell in less than 2 minutes flat? Does it really happen all cutesy like that? Really?

Nordic Boy and I have a semi-interesting how-we-got-together story, sure. But it’s just a really, really long story. Looooong. Like, several years long. That’s right, I said YEARS. It took us a good long time to actually get together. And I don’t really believe, in my heart of hearts, that anyone in their right mind would want to hear such a mind-bogglingly long and complicated story just to answer a “how did you meet?” question. Or do you? I don’t know. But, it’s been asked, on this here blog, just enough times for me to answer it. At least, Chapter One in the story of me and Nordic Boy. Because you would want to poke your eyes out if I wrote out the whole thing. You might want to anyway, just with Chapter One.

I was 19 years old when we met. A BABY. A TEEN. That kind of freaks me out when I think about it like that. I was an actor type back then and I landed a sweet job at a sweet Equity theater company in the Chicagoland area. I dropped out of college (scandal!!!) to go pursue my dream, which entailed being a crew-type person to pay the beels while I acted on the side. I ended up doing everything at this job of mine: I built sets, I built costumes, I stage managed, I choreographed, I “assistant directed” (cough cough made coffee cough cough), I did it all. My very first day, the production manager took me on a tour of the building. I met a bazillion people, all of whom were much older and more seasoned than I, and I felt dwarfed by my lack of experience. The tour ended in the scene shop. There, high up on a scaffolding, weilding a nail gun, stood Nordic Boy.

Let me back up for a second. At this time in my life, I had a boyfriend. Let’s call him Poop Nugget. Poop Nugget was back at my ex-college in Michigan, and he was cheating on me all over the state. And that wasn’t even the biggest part of his dickish behavior. He was just a sort of condescending person in general and he didn’t make me feel very good about myself. I have always, always had pretty nice boyfriends in my life, before him and after him. This one was the exception to that rule. But I stayed with him because he was Mr. Big Deal at my college and all my friends thought he was a Dreamboat and I didn’t want to be the asshole who dumped the Dreamboat.

That shit is the stupidest crap I think I have ever said. But there you have it.

Anyhow. Back to the theater scene shop. I can’t lie. I took one look at Nordic Boy and I was SPRUNG. It was fog machines and sappy music and holy jeebus that is one nice lookin’ fella there. So, like the chipper chippy that I was back in the day, I marched over to him and said “HI! I’m Librarian Girl!”

He didn’t even turn around to look at me. He just said “Hey” in a nice but totally not-interested way and kept working.

(An aside. I have to tell you that, if Nordic Boy were co-blogging this entry with me, he would be hotly contesting this portrayal of himself. Every time we talk about this period in our lives, he tells me that I have it all backwards. That he noticed ME right away and I was the one who seemed like I was just being friendly but not interested. But really. It was HIM who was friendly but not interested. I trust that you all will believe ME, your close blog friend, right?)

From that day forward, I was INTRIGUED by Nordic Boy. I wasn’t really in the market for a boyfriend or anything, since I was so busy being faithful to unfaithful Poop Nugget and all. But Nordic Boy was fascinating to me. He was the boy-wonder of the theater, because he was the Master Carpenter there and he was only 20 years old, which was so cool and so nuts. All of his friends, at work and outside of work, were in their 30s and he fit right in with them. He was mature.

At this point in my life, friends, the one thing I was not…was mature.

I wanted to befriend Nordic Boy. BADLY. Besides his intriguing position at the theater, he was really nice, and made funny jokes, and he was SO the only person anywhere near my age that worked there. I diligently said hello to him, and asked him how he was, and became quite obnoxious about it. I would do oh so subtle things like this:

Me: (at the end of a shift, to the entire room) Hey, can anyone give me a ride home? Nordic Boy?
Nordic Boy: (from way across the room) What? Oh, yeah. Sure.
The Rest of the Employees: (snicker snicker)

Or this:

(All of us working on a huge set, me nowhere near Nordic Boy).
Me: Ouch! I got a sliver in my hand. (walking myself all the way across the backstage area, onto the stage, passing by maybe 20 people who could have helped me out). Nordic Boy, will you help me get this out?
Nordic Boy: Um, ok.

Slowly but surely (ok, maybe it was within one week of me working there), I finagled us both into a routine whereby he was driving me back to my apartment after work every night. And every night, as he dropped me off, this would occur.

Me: You want to come in for a bit? We could watch a movie or something. Or we could walk somewhere and get something to eat.
Him: (As always, said super nicely and completely unreadable) No thanks. See you tomorrow!

I could not, for the life of me, get him to do something with me socially, outside of work. At work, we were (I thought) totally bonding. As we worked together, he just got funnier, and nicer, and hotter by the minute. So I persisted, unsuccessfully, with the invitations. After a while, I just came to expect the “no thanks” response and gave up hope. Then, one day, out of the blue…

Me: You want to come in for a beer or something?
Nordic Boy: Ok.

WHAAAAAT?

So he came up. And I remember I was freaking out, because in reality, I didn’t have any beer. The one time he accepts the offer, and I don’t even have what I said I had. When we got up to the apartment, he didn’t seem to notice though. The other reason I was freaking out? Was because just a few days before this, old Poop Nugget had called me up, and confessed to cheating it up with some girly we both knew back home, and we had broken up.

So here I was, Poop Nugget Free, and single, and it was like Nordic Boy had some weird radar or something because this is the exact moment that he is sitting on my couch, in my apartment, all cute and all.

This post is getting really long. See? Even Chapter One of the story is all wordy. I’ve got to go, guys. I’m still in my pajamas and I have shit to do. I’ll leave you either (a) wondering if Nordic Boy and I hit it off that night, or (b) thanking your Lucky Charms that I have wrapped this shit up. I’ll tell you another time about what happened next.

I’ll leave you with this tragic tip. I had not seen the last of Poop Nugget.

Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.

I’m out,
Librarian Girl

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16 comments

  1. I feel your story pain. Not because mine is long, but because for some reason when your story starts out: We were both working in Big Box Electronic store. We introduced ourselves using cultural slurs and he was engaged to another woman at the time… Not cute apparently.

  2. Ooohhh, I like this story! Continue!And I thought of my question this morning. What is your favorite random act of kindness to bestow on total strangers (or people you know, but strangers is more fun)?From what I know of you, you’ll have an answer for this one.

  3. Plying boys with alcohol seems to be a successful ploy. I personally met my boy, while both of us were really drunk in a bar, by using this line: “You’re really hot. We should make out sometime.” It seems to have worked.

  4. I can never tell anyone how my husband and I met, because we were 19 when we fell in love and started sleeping together – and 30 when we started dating.Not, as you say, pithy.

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