It was the seventh game of the world series, Yankees vs. Atlanta, and I was coerced into attending a new singles event by the pastor of my church. He was hosting a night filled with fun, young people, and baseball. If I could have talked my way out of this event, I would have, but politician’s and pastor’s have more than a handshake in common. I couldn’t say no gracefully and I had to bring a dessert.
After returning empty of hand and heart from a five day bear hunt, FringeMan’s friend lured him into showering and dressing with the promise of “new” girls. The pastor of this church knew what it took to corral a bunch of young men – women. FringeMan went with a chip on his shoulder and a vow to steer clear of any skirts.
Although according to FringeMan, I had run into him several times prior to this fateful night, I only remember once. He offered me a glass of 7-Up and I refused it. I knew by the look in his eyes he had more than a cold beverage in mind and I was not thirsty.
Outnumbered by Yankees, FringeMan was the only Atlanta Braves fan in the house that night. He was more obnoxious than a seventh grader and not wanting to be outdone, I soon found myself in a battle of wits and words. I don’t remember much about the baseball game, except that I think it went into extra innings and the Yankees won.
By the time we made it to the desert table, FringeMan was thinking “She’s a good looking girl who brought good food. What could be better?” His words, not mine.
Unfortunately I begged my mother to bake me something tasty. Had I known what was under the wrappings, I would have tossed it and gotten a box of donuts. While eating through layers of cake, chocolate pudding, chopped toffee, and whipped cream, FringeMan commended me on my domestic prowess. I silently cursed my mother’s attempt to marry me off with confectionery enticements, and with as much obnoxiousness as possible, I regaled him with tales of setting toaster oven’s on fire and burning bags of microwave pop-corn until they resembled scorched bricks. I wasn’t there to find a date or husband, and I wasn’t about to start cooking. In my mind domestication was something for 1950’s sitcoms and animals you wanted for pets.
I left that night thinking FringeMan was crazy and would get on my last nerve if I let him and I was not about to let him. The pastor’s wife happened to be a friend of my mother’s. They’d worked together at one time and unbeknownst to me, she called my mother the next day and told her to keep an eye on the two of us. Apparently she had mistaken our relentless bickering for attraction. Silly her.
To be continued next Monday.
This post is part of a Meetings, Marriages, and Memories carnival at Musings of a Future Pastor’s Wife. For more stories of romance or to tell your own, go visit!