A Box of Broken Crackers and a Shoelace

I was as broken as a box of crackers… that had been stomped on by an elephant, put in a paper shredder, and dumped down the garbage disposal. Yep. A smidge glum, you might say.

The D word. It sucks.

First, it's the nauseating "Oh, you poor thing." (Barfing a little as we speak, even now.)

Then it's the traumatizing "I have a friend you should meet!" and "Have you tried the new dating site?" which would leave me begging for a samurai harikari sword.

I wasn't ready. Men made me want to scream and run away. If a guy looked at me, I'd sort of do a Dracula hiss and cross my fingers over my eyes like Bela Legosi.

About a year post-divorce, my sister, thinking I'd waited long enough, tested the waters. She pulled out a pen and paper. "Let's design your perfect man." She wrote down: "Rose's Perfect Man" and waited in anticipation.

I answered with my 'they all have cooties' scowl, "Well, I'd want a hunk or nothing."

"H-u-n-k… or nothing…" she wrote solicitously. She lifted her pen and smiled sweetly. "And…? What else?"

"NO KIDS."

She frowned. "Why not? You have four kids."

"Because I wouldn't want baggage. Not one tiny speck." I defiantly folded my arms so tight I almost pulled a muscle.

She scribbled, "No kids." And then, under her breath, she said, "Hmm."

WhatEVER.

"Go on…" she looked like she was trying not to laugh.

 "He'd live in a box, and I'd take him out when I wanted to play, and then quickly shove him back in the box."

I noticed she'd stopped writing. She tapped her pen, and there was a long pause.

I squirmed just a little. Here came the verdict.

She sighed. "So… not ready yet." She even wrote down NOT READY YET with a thousand exclamation points.

So… I was pretty sure I'd flunked her test.

Time passed, two years since D-day to be precise, and I felt a glimmer. Perhaps a little tap on the shoulder from Cupid. Or, more likely, Cupid tapping his feet and rolling his eyes at me. Yeah. That was it.

Still, there was that feeling, deep in my gut. And it wasn't nausea. It was… terror.

But… buried under that terror was…

Horror. (Oh, stop it.)

Okay, but buried under the horror, which was buried under the terror, was that little teeny tiny glimmer of a thought. It went something like this:

"Well, I will NEVER date around. I'll simply find 'The One.' I'll know him when I see him."

That became my mantra whenever I'd hear:

"Hey, my brother is single!"

"Have you seen the new guy at the bank?"

"I've got a rich, hot, family-oriented, dreamboat, mansion-living, dog-loving, new neighbor!"

I'd look mystically into their eyes and croon hauntingly with pursed lips, "No. Only 'The One.' I'll know him when I see him."

That got everyone off my back. Plus, now they all thought I was a weirdo.

It's not that I wasn't lonely. I was hella lonely. And OMG did I miss kisses. Maaan I'd dream about them. Epic, stupid, in-a-rainstorm-flying-through-the-air-on-a-rope-with-a-superhero kiss. Damn. It really sucked to be me.

Maybe, just maybe… it was time to find The One. But I couldn't actively look for him. Hell no, that would destroy the whole mystical karma thing.

So—now, this is a true story. Here I was with this teeny tiny glimmer hidden under that heap of horror and terror. I'm a musician by trade, so I went to a club to check out the music scene. It was June twenty-first. There was a red-headed lady singer with a couple of guitarists playing some Indie rock.

I sat down at the bar, and I saw a short, elderly friend of mine, who joined me. He was newly widowed and very sad. So here I was consoling him. And did I mention he was short? Well, above his head on the seat behind him was this handsome guy with a white soul spot on his chin—you know, the little tuft of hair on the chin with sort of a beatnik adventuresome vibe. It was the soul spot that caught my attention. The light was shining on it. He never noticed I was looking, so I was free to gaze without fear.

Here's that screeeech of the needle across the record. Because I was supposed to be listening to my sad friend, and I was totally checking out the guy above his head in the next seat!

Before I could even apologize, my buddy stood up and said, and I quote: "I think I'll leave you kids alone."

KIDS. Plural. Cringe cringe.

So, now there was an empty seat between me and the hotty guy. But yeah. Terror, horror, blah blah. In other words, hell to the no on that one. I wasn't budging, except to run out the door, any second now.

Well, thank god for lechers. Yep, I said it. I'll say it again. Thank god for lechers because a drunk ass approached me, and his hands were aiming straight for my boobs, I kid you not. Instinct. This is the part no one believes, but it is true!

Instinct had me leaping out of my seat, away from a disgusting, groping pig, and into that empty seat. I looked at the hotty frantically and said, "I'm sorry, but I need you to save me."

Now, first of all, I am a liberated woman. I would never, ever, ever, ever (did I say NEVER EVER EVER) ask a guy to save me.

Except—I did. How very strange that those words came out.

His green eyes crinkled with warmth (and a hint of what the hell?), and he held out his hand. "I'm Anthony."

First thing I noticed: not a soul spot on his chin. It was a big ol' rugged, manly scar. I guess it's true; chicks dig scars.

He said, "How are you?"

And it stopped me in my tracks. This guy—this glimmer, let's say… needed to red-flag quickly so I could run away. So, I decided he would get the real me. Not the polite "I'm fine, thank you; how are you?" Nope. Me. The box of broken crackers. That'd make him run for the hills!

Except… he didn't run. Turns out, he was a box of broken crackers too. On the mend, just like me.

He told me he had kids. Three of them. I felt a rush of relief, like a breath of sweet mountain air. Thank god, he had kids. And lots of kids (three is "lots" and four kids like me is "hella lots"). He understood what it meant to be a parent. For some reason, I blurted out, "My kids come first. First, second, third, and last."

That'd get him.

He nodded, smiling. "Yeah, mine, too."

Every honesty bomb I lobbed, he diffused. It was just so… easy. So simple. I was laughing, and so was he. We compared his kids and mine, their similarities and their differences. And we both had traveled extensively. My dad was from Amsterdam; Anthony had LIVED in Amsterdam. I'd been to Thailand, his son was in Thailand as we spoke. Just funny little connections.

And not one. Single. Red. Flag.

He said he was going to Ireland in September, and that I should come. So I laughed and said, "Sure! If you're taking me, I'm going!" thinking he was being ridiculous.

That was June 21^st, on the Summer solstice, when he asked me to go to Ireland.

Now, here's the weird part. The bartender said something about the tab. I said, "Oh, are you closing soon?" The bartender laughed. "We've been closed for ages."

Stunned, Anthony and I turned around. The band had packed up and left. The servers were counting their tips. Where the hell had the time gone?

We'd been so wrapped up in our conversation, Anthony and I, that time had stood still for us. Mystified, we stood up, and he walked me to my car. We'd already exchanged cards, but I was hit with my familiar fear, and I jumped in my car and closed the door like an idiot.

Anthony tapped on the window. To hear him tell the story, I unrolled it about an inch. I say it was halfway rolled down. Either way, he leaned in, whispered my name, and kissed me. A sweet, gentle, sexy kiss that had me smiling all the way home.

Things moved fast. Lightning speed. We were glued at the hip, completely inseparable, and head over heels. I guess that's what boxes of broken crackers on the mend do.

A few weeks later, Anthony told me, "I have an idea!" and he took me to the Secret Café. I asked him what was up, and he told me I had to guess. He said, "What am I doing?" And he removed his shoe.

Looking around, embarrassed and laughing at the crazy guy taking off his sneaker in a restaurant, I said, "You're taking off your shoe."

"That's right." He slipped it back on his foot. "And now?"

"And now you put it back on."

He proceeded to tie his shoe. "Now, what am I doing?"

I shook my head, laughing. "Tying the knot."

He pointed at me, beaming. "That's it."

"What? Tying the knot?" My heart stopped. "Wait. Are you saying you want to… tie the knot?"

He nodded, vulnerable and happy.

I was too stunned for words.

He took my hand, and we walked out to the parking lot.

I shook my head. "Anthony, we've only known each other a few weeks!"

He said, "Yes, I know." His eyes were full of love.

"And, our kids would think we're insane!"

"Probably."

"It's way too fast, and way too crazy!"

He smiled with hope, his eyes red. "Let me ask you something. Do you see us together thirty years from now?"

"Of course. Without a doubt." I marveled at the significance of that truth.

"Then…" he placed his hands tenderly on my shoulders, "do you think we can just choose… happiness?"

That got me. I was quiet for a moment, deep in thought. The thought that if I wanted happiness, well, there he was! The man who made me insanely happy. The man who was helping me to heal.

I put my hand on his heart, and my eyes brimmed with tears. "You mean—I can just have… this?"

He nodded, his green eyes shining.

"Okay, then. Yes. I choose happiness."

I came home and told my youngest daughter, and we both laughed and cried and collapsed on the floor in each other's arms. Later, when I was leaving for work, I saw there was a shoelace hanging on my door.

I tied it to my purse, and Anthony and I decided that, until all seven kids were told, we would call it our "shoelace promise."

It didn't take too long to have a proper diamond ring, but I still have that shoelace.

We healed each other, Anthony and I. No more box of broken crackers. Just love and honesty.

And, that September, on the Fall solstice, I boarded a plane to Ireland with my Anthony with a shoelace tied to my purse, and I never looked back.