Well it’s the end of another week, Good Shabbos. Saturday is Valentines’ Day and I still haven’t got that gift for my wife. I think we’ll have to do something special together tomorrow.
Today while driving from one job-site to the another I caught some radio talk/discussion about how people had met their beloved. The host was prompting people to call in with their best stories. I listened intently but wasn’t too impressed. The host was offering up a bottle of Irish Whiskey for the best. After hearing about 6 or 8 different stories, I knew I had them all beat.
I first met my future wife on a construction site at a local oil refinery. I saw her standing, really more like wiggling; in a line waiting to be served at The Gut Wagon, The Vomit Comet, ie; the catering truck. She was wearing a purple hardhat identifying her as a fellow Union Pipefitter . It was cold outside maybe, January or February, so she was wearing a full set of insulated coveralls at the time. Upon further inspection I discovered that she was struggling to retrieve her wallet from under the coveralls, that would explain all the gyrations. To this day I don’t know if it was her naivete, or just a great line, but instead of pulling off the coveralls she announces to the gathering; “I need somebody to get into my pants”!! Are you kidding me!!
It's the best place to meet chicks
Well, needless to say there were plenty of volunteers up for the task. I thought a couple of Boilermakers were going to have it out with a few Ironworkers, it had the potential to get rather ugly. It was about then that I shoved my way into the melay, and informed her, and that Boilermaker with the size 3 hat and 63 coat, that this was a job for her union brother. She accepted my offer, donned her right hip and I gingerly worked the wallet from her 501s.
That was my first meeting with her, it would be another 18 months before we actually went on our first date. The story of that odyssey will find its way into this blog at a later date, I should have figured out then that she was directionaly challenged.
So ours’ wasn’t your typical meeting, hardly even romantic, but we can’t pick our chance encounters. The whole idea of picking a chance encounter is an oxymoron. With that premise put forward, I submit that we need to be more attentive to the struggles of others, whether its helping a damsel pull a wallet from her pants, or saying something nice to that person at your bus stop. You never know when or where that magical moment will strike, but it would be a shame to let it slip by because we’re just too busy, or too shy to be nice. Happy Valentines’ Day.
Talk to you later.
