Brace yourself friends. This is the long version of how I met my husband.
And yes, (*spoiler alert!*) today is HIS birthday. HIS existence inspired today's post.
But since HIS back story is not mine to tell you, you should come to his concert tonight at Opening Bell (8 p.m., South Lamar in Dallas) to get his version for yourself. (Like that seamless shameless plug?!)
Here's mine.
After all my classmates and I had been assigned mandatory parts in the band, it didn’t take long for me to realize the hierarchy of our sixth-grade social food chain.
All the prettiest girls were in the flute section, and all the cutest boys made up the drum line
And I? Well I was positioned a not-so-respectable distance from both groups.
I was a clarinet. Oh the forlorn clarinets.
(Please don't hate me if you too were a clarinet.)
For three years I sat there taking chair tests, learning scales, being terrified of some of our directors, tapping my big toe to the beats of Sousa… and sneaking peeks longingly back at those dreamy drum line boys. They were so cute. And tall. And less inhibited. And taller! Than the few guys nearby, tucked away on other wood winds. Or trumpets.
But those cute, tall drummer boys were just a junior high dream… one I gave up on long before…
High school, where I found a new crowd. One that didn’t involve tests to determine my chair placement. I was a good-ish kid. I tried pretty hard in school, and not nearly hard enough the few years I spent in athletics.
Though I was too terrified to join the marching band – I have the worst rhythm and coordination in the world – I still met my mandatory nerd quotient by participating in UIL, mostly ‘cause it afforded me ample opportunities to miss school in the spring.
It also offered per diems during trips to go to places like Chili’s… and to take luxurious naps on travel vans and buses. (Luxurious meaning drool facials while propped against a fluffy “pillow,” a.k.a. a ridged book-filled backpack.) Basically, it was a sophomore’s dream gig... but, I digress.
There were inappropriate but harmless crushes back then (way-out-of-my-league seniors, way-out-of-it-bad-boys, and what-was-I-thinking-coaches?!).
But other than a few awkward dates (NOT with the coaches) and what might be the world’s most awkward first-kiss, not much came from my attempts at a high school “love life.” (I definitely did NOT inspire any Katy Perry-esque ballads, and I don’t think too many of those boys I pined over lost much sleep thinking about me.)
Fast forward to college and I had ditched any allusion of athleticism. There I tried my hand at the party scene, but really didn’t settle in ‘til I found some like-minded conservatives.
I spent most of my time at my Baptist school afraid to wear any form of tank top and avoiding the few people that had seen me drink beer freshman year.
Fifteen pounds, a few late-night cram sessions, and some really fabulous friendships later, I wore a really dorky black robe and used my diploma to land a job labeling old tapes (and answering phones, etc.) at a marketing firm downtown.
I also moonlit unwrapping candles at Pier One, which was just about as fun as it sounds. And I plugged in at a church, where I (ironically) learned to loosen up a bit (started wearing sleeveless dresses – without sweaters – occasionally!). Rebel! Right?! ;)
Shy as I was, somewhere between 21 and 23, in that cloudy transition from college stuff to the “real world,” I managed to have my first real heart break before landing my first real job.
I moped around Abilene a while. Then I did what you do when you’re heartbroken and weary…
I moved back home.
With even less direction, and way more baggage than I had gone to college with, I started substitute teaching. Then I nanny-ed for the second time in my life. (So scary!)
Then, I caught a real break… I landed a job at the local paper (Read all about it… here.).
And not long after getting the job I found a boyfriend to match. We had similar interests. Similar jobs. Eerily similar personalities. And, not surprisingly, we looked really good on paper.
But things didn’t work out, and after our breakup, what had seemed like a fun and fascinating job wasn’t so fun or fascinating anymore.
So I prayed and prayed and prayed for an out, and finally received it during a business lunch.
Then I left my job. And said goodbyes. And I drove around the West Coast with a girl friend.
Every sunset, long talk, and new state was like a therapy session for my way-weary soul.
But when we returned home I still felt the need to run away, so this time I headed to Waco, where I crashed on a pal’s couch until I found an affordable one-bedroom apartment in a reasonably safe part of town. It had a Jetsons-style pool, and spacious closets. And I was halfway settled on embracing my fate as a cat lady when God intervened.
First, I found a “church.” One I felt comfortable at, and instantly welcomed into. It became a safe haven to share my struggles, and my insecurities. And even if I had a really hard time opening up to those people I experienced such healing just trusting that I could.
They made me laugh. And made really good shepherd’s pie, brisket and taco soup. And they didn’t seem to mind that I mostly brought store-bought desserts for our weekly post-church lunches, or that it took months for me to talk about anything beyond reality TV or the ridiculous grammatical mistakes I saw everyday at work.
In a lot of ways those friends invited me to participate in my own life (for which I'm eternally grateful), and on August 6 of last year that involved inviting me to a concert.
That night, behind a guitarist, and bass player, and some other guy playing some other thing, a sweaty boy caught my eye. One rattling away like Animal on a cherry red drumset.
He was dark and handsome and wearing a black wife-beater. And I couldn’t take my eyes (or like a dorky creep, my camera) off him.
How I hoped he would notice me, snapping away. Walking clumsily around that open-door pavilion, large, obtrusive camera in tow. Through his band’s set I so anxiously hoped not just to meet him, but to find out what was going on in his head and heart. Because it was clear by the smile on his face that he had a lot of passion and joy and love to share.
A few songs later – or a lifetime depending on how you look at it – he said “I’m Mikael,” and shook my hand.
And that was pretty much it.
All those years of staring longingly at those cute, tall drummers in the back of the band hall… All those subsequent years of pining after boys who didn’t notice my existence, or just wanted to cheat off me in History… That first, real, post-college heartbreak, and the even more gut-wrenching one after that… The nights spent crying on my carpet, afraid I’d be alone forever… The New Years (plural) spent without anyone to kiss at midnight… The torturous romantic “comedies” I’d watched alone while eating copious amounts of ice cream… The prayers, and birthday wishes, and journal entries inspired by deep longing to find someone…
Erased with our first eye contact.
Only, I don’t guess they were erased as much as completely overshadowed, by an event far more compelling than any of those previous crushes or courtships. It only took meeting Mikael to know that all the other stuff would pale in comparison to our part of the story.
In all those years of planning first-dates with any one of the drummers from band hall (sixth-grade clarinetists in Coke-bottle glasses cannot afford to be picky, okay), or doodling new last names inside my binder for Biology… I never dreamed it’d happen that way. And I had spent a lot of time coming up with meet-cutes in my mind.
But not one of the scenarios I had imagined was as good as that night in August. And it wasn’t because suddenly I was this different, more confident or beautiful woman… it was because that night was real!
And the relationship that was forged over a brief conversation, and a sweaty handshake, has only gotten better, and harder, and more real, and more wonderful since then.
In thirteen days that boy and I will celebrate the six-month anniversary of our marriage.
And one month after that we’ll celebrate the one-year anniversary of our meeting.
But, today, I cannot help but celebrate that 27 years ago, at 2:37(?) in the afternoon, a black-haired, brown-eyed baby was brought into this world and named Mikael Wayne Aguilar.
He was a little boy that would grow up with his own story to tell, of band halls, and first-dates, and broken hearts, and battle scars, and foolish feats and funny stuff… (And I’m so thankful he chooses to tell that story through music! )
A little boy that would become a wonderful man, a loyal friend, a respectful son (and brother and grandson and…) a multi-talented musician, and compassionate, intelligent, super cute dream-come-true for that nerdy clarinetist. (The one with the crush on the entire drumline.)
Mikael, I thank God for you, everyday. Even the days we’re mostly annoying each other. And the ones that have been harder than the rest.
You are exactly what I needed, and you could not have come into my life at a better time.
From our first few Facebook messages, to our first roadtrip, discovering favorite restaurants, developing inside jokes, merging families, bank accounts, paying for the marriage license, planning a wedding, planning a move, planning a life… I could not have asked for a better partner or best friend.
Happy birthday Husband. I am so blessed to spend life with you, and so thankful you’re much better than I at setting a pace.
Thanks for being my dreamy drummer. You are the love of my life, and you were so wonderfully worth all the waiting.
You make this very nerdy band dropout very happy. Can't wait to celebrate lots more June 23rd's with you.
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