This place is a dump.
No, really.
I remember my first real date with Cathy. It was the perfect evening. We had dinner together at an exotic restaurant, then went for a romantic walk down a secluded woodland path. We strolled along together, just the two of us, getting used to the feeling of her hand in mine and matching the length of our strides to each other’s. We walked quietly, enjoying the excitement of love a’blossoming, drinking in the sounds of birds singing and the smell of—
Wait a minute.
What is that smell?
And, now that I notice it, why is there so much litter around this little clearing?
Could it be that I have taken my date…to a dump?
Yep.
In my defense, I had no way of knowing that the beautiful path was, in fact, the road to the city trash depot. In America our dumps are a little less well integrated into the community. But, this was not America; it was China, and they get to do dumps as they please.
Two thoughts occur to me now as I remember that first date, on a mission trip deepinahearta China:
First, my future bride showed her grace and fun-loving spirit early on, laughing with me at a truly absurd situation. I learned a lot about her in that moment.
Second, I hope the dump date isn’t a metaphor for life.
We have had some great dates. Once, I surprised Cathy with a day-trip to San Francisco. I picked her up early in the morning for a “mystery day” and drove her to the airport. She didn’t know where we were going until we boarded the plane. We spent the day exploring the city, had dinner at the Equinox at the top of the Hyatt Embarcadero, and flew home that night. Michael earns some class points.
Another time I took Cathy skiing. This would have been an all-time great date except for the fact that I don’t ski. Gentlemen, I recommend learning to ski before you take a lady skiing. I wanted to impress her, and I did. You see, I had a little trouble getting the hang of turning. I understood the concept of shifting weight to the downhill ski, leaning into the turn, blah blah blah—it wasn’t working for me. Then I thought of how I had seen the professionals do it on TV. They seemed to just sort of hop into the air, turn around, and land heading in the opposite direction. That seemed so much easier than the way I was doing it.
So I tried it.
I shooshed my way diagonally from one side of the slope to about the middle, then decided to turn before I picked up too much speed—since I didn’t know how to slow down. I hopped into the air—sort of—and turned my skis—part way. I landed with my skis facing straight down the hill.
Gravity is an impersonal force—it is not your friend.
I guess you’re not really supposed to go straight down the hill. Lacking that knowledge, I decided that my best bet was to, again, emulate the pros I had seen on TV. I crouched down as low as I could, thrust the ski poles out behind me, and accelerated to about 3400 miles per hour. Trees exploded from the shockwave. I passed a beautiful blur that was Cathy, then there was just sky and snow and sky and snow.
And trees.
You know, my bride has a delightful laugh.
Dating has changed with the advent of kids, and careers, and mortgages. I’d like to talk more about that, but I see that our time is up for today. You’ve got things to do—I won’t keep you. Come back Tuesday and we’ll finish this up; in the meantime, tell me your best date story. There’s all that empty “Comment” space just below…make use of it. What’s your story? You know you’ve got one.
See you Tuesday.
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