It is a question I’ve been asked many, many times over. And it is a question that, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve always loved to answer.
How did I meet you?
People ask because, I suspect, it is inconceivable to them that someone like me would be in your life. Someone so unlikely, so wrong, so absurdly different that they can’t imagine you ever having chosen someone like me.
And I answer because I find it so amusing at the way some of them respond. Some like the story of how we came to know each other, others like the story of how we actually met. Many don’t realize that the two are actually, however distantly, connected.
But mostly, I answer because several times now, people have said that the story of how we met is a story so clichéd, so bizarre, that it’s something that is only read about in books or seen in the movies.
Now, three years later, people still ask — a little less superficially now, because it has been three years, but a little more curiously as well. And I answer, because I realize that it is a story that I — never mind anyone else — had only ever read about in books or seen in the movies.
While everything that follows it may not be perfect, I still tell the story because it gives me hope that if we could have the clichéd how-we-met story and still beat all the odds of falling prey to the predictable end that most clichéd stories come to, then it is a story worth telling.