How I found my husband - #159

The origin story.

Listen, maybe don’t read this if you consider yourself a parental figure to me. And maybe don’t read this if any sexy vibes would ruin this newsletter for you.

Maybe do read this if you’re on the fence about whoever you’re seeing. I was ready to rip the whole fence out of the ground, and I really recommend that.

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I don’t talk about my husband Ben a whole lot on here, mainly because I spent a good part of my youth writing a very detailed and occasionally explicit dating blog. Now, I like to keep that part of my life private. Recently, I was flipping through some old notebooks in my desk and found one from 2015. So I flipped to March, when Ben and I went on our first date.

Ben and I celebrated ten years together on Thursday. (Eight years married.) And today, we’re on a road trip to introduce our little gremlin to some of our nearest and dearest.

To celebrate, I thought it would be a laugh to share the journal entry I wrote when we first met. It is seven hand-written pages of me absolutely foaming at the mouth to be with him.

If it’s not this, I don’t want it. Happy anniversary, Benny. See you out there.

Ten years ago

March 22, 2015

How to capture the fleeting, sweet effervescence of anticipation of love? I have the time to tell the whole story, so in case it's important (as all sweet stories should and hope to be) here it is:

Brett, the kind of ghost you realize is friendly early enough in the film for it to be a caper rather than a scare, invited me on a donut ride, which is, as you would imagine, a ride to donuts. I was still wary of his intentions, but I went. I needed to ride more. It ended up being me, Brett, and Ben.

Good God, Ben. Ben can't hide his shape. God cut him from marble, tufts of hair haphazardly sticking through his helmet, smile lines like graves, tanned in the way the sun welcomes you back like it missed you, kissing you in bronze and charm. But more than the way he looked, more than his coordinated, healthy, happy, lackadaisical mess, more than that was his voice.

You could believe him, like a well cast earnest and tired cop. You knew, before any plot, that he was the protagonist and you could trust him. So, being completely dumbfounded by him, I rode ahead and made zero effort to join their conversation. I would say I was 16 again, but I was not timid at 16. At 29, I am timid of that smitten, because I know all too well what a fool it allows me to make of myself.

We arrived at the donut shop, it was February on the Southern California coast. It was the weather only Southern Californians allow themselves to hate: 58 degrees and a wet humidity, a mist from the ocean just 200 meters to our west. It clammed with the sweat and sunk like a bath into your skin, good for you and completely unpleasant. I shivered, my body still violently removing sadness like a sickness. I tried not to speak to Ben, directing my attention at Brett, so it wouldn't be so gross and obvious that I'd basically fallen in love with Ben the moment I saw his casual lean on his bike on time at our meeting place. When did I become so attracted to lycra?

Let the record show I would be a terrible detective, not because my ability to find clues is poor, but because my ability to believe them is too eager, too ready. As we rode off, discussing the stereotype that women feel temperature change more acutely (or simply admit to it), Ben said “every time I go to Cassandra's, it's always warm in there.”

So naturally, I assumed Cassandra was Ben's girlfriend, because life is unfair and cruel and there is no happiness left. I rode silently and with the speed only a crushed dream can provide.

I don't remember how, but the Oscars came up and I bragged that I'd seen the screeners because a friend of mine had lent them to me. Of course, this raised the issue of why did he get them? He's a comedian. He must be a good one. Would I know him? Neal Brennan. How do you know Neal Brennan? I'm dating him because I can't have you, Ben!

Ben was incredulous! Couldn't believe it! But he's too old for you! He's not that old. (Yes, he is.) I haven't a clue what else was said, except that I was now a piece of interest in Ben's mind. I didn't know if he thought of me as a gold digger or interesting or cool enough to date Neal Brennan, but he thought of me and I could fall asleep with that being enough.

Weeks pass, I spend some time (times) googling Ben. There is no evidence of him anywhere. This infuriates me and delights my imagination, suddenly very busy. I go out on the bike with a crew for my first attempt to climb with the out-of-sorts knee. And he is there. He is there! I ride next to him because my active fantasy life has created a colloquial friendship with him despite his absence. (I justify this by saying it's a necessary evil of being a writer, and think no more of it.)

I have no idea what we talk about, the three miles of synchronicities completely rewiring my brain. I am bewitched by his absurd tan lines and comfortable attitude. Throw me against a wall and make love to me! I turn up Topanga to ride alone the rest of the way.

Days later, on the RCC LAX ride, I stand with Brett at an intersection waiting for the others to catch up. A fit man rides by in a DJ Clever kit, and I miss him as Brett says hi and he rides by. Was that Ben? It wasn't. I hold very still as Brett explains something about seeing his own kits in the wild, hoping he doesn't realize I've basically admitted out loud that I am engrossed by Ben. Trees move faster than my breath as the moment gives Brett too long to notice and he doesn't.

On a weeknight, body ravaged by food poisoning, sometime around March 18, I open Tinder because I am lonely and Neal is miserable, and God maybe someone will say something.

How many times have you found yourself truly excited, alone in bed at 10pm on a weeknight? Kicking your feet under the covers and thanking the God you recently decided was a woman?

if Tinder is terrible, it did give me that, because there was Ben in sunglasses, in kit, with his back to the camera, out of frame, with a hat on. Ben! No one can see how hot you are! Good.

I stare at his profile, unsure of if this is indeed everything that I've been fucking losing my mind over. I decide, even if this isn't Ben, it is worth the risk of swiping right. Do you know what his profile started with? “I love being outside.” Do you know what mine says? “I'd rather be outside.” In the movie of my life, you're not even allowed to write things that corny.

But I did the right thing. I swiped right. Romance, folks.

When you swipe right, you hold still for a second with hope that the screen will fade to black and you'll be informed of a match. This is where the feet-kicking began. Euphoria cured all my ills because Ben Foster had seen my profile and in all his manhood and knowing me anyway and Cassandra and seeming disinterested and bewilderment at the concept of me dating Neal, he swiped right, and the world was good and kind and full of wonder.

I needed to be swift. Cool. A totally cool, rad chick. So I went with “haha, hey ben!” Laughing to myself alone at a table on the beach at dusk even as I write that. So cool. Haha, we matched on Tinder! How silly! Dating these days. Marry me?

And as luck would have it, as the planets aligned and my white blood cell count boomed and the lines on my palm extended into 5am coffees together for the rest of our lives. He replied. We talked about the crash ride that messed up my knee. Actually, my knee was the first thing he asked about, which was so indicative of his kindness (memory) and thoughtfulness (decency.) I was fucked. But I let insecurities convince me that it had been a courtesy swipe. I truncated the conversation, not sensing an ask out. “Ride again soon, yeah?” and he said, “let me know when you're feeling better!” And I said, “see you out there!” I should have read it clearly, but I was scared and nervous, and closed my phone smiling and giggling and losing any memory of ‘Cassandra’.

The next day, there was a lot of cooing with Emily. I was giggling, blushing. I was, as I am wont to do, making a fool of myself with glee. That afternoon, I went to pick up the race kits from Brett. I was going to get them from Cutler the next morning, but a change of plans from God sent me to Brett's. Brett did not look good, having come down with a case of god knows what from his dementor girlfriend Jeneane*. God Jeneane sucked. So I comforted him by sharing in small miseries that I'd been in the hospital earlier that week.

“Yeah, Ben told me.” In neon flashing letters on the Sunset Strip, Ben told me. In cartoon character bubbles, in skywriting, in the dreams of children, Ben told me. Is there a greater joy to women than knowing men talk like them? There isn't to me.

“Ah yes, because we matched on Tinder.” Here is the thing I like about Brett. He has fully formed conversations with pertinent details of interest to the parties involved. Curiosity piqued, he indulged me. Ben had texted Brett, “guess who I matched with on Tinder.” Brett made his guesses of Kate* and his ex. And upon Ben's reveal of moi, Brett apparently said some variant of dude ask her out. But drama! Ben was unsure, because of how dismissive and chill I was when I said “See you out there.”

Yeah, your coolness is coldness, Kelton. In Brett's retelling of this, to me, I was on the edge of the seat I was not sitting on, eyes wide, hands behind my back, afraid in their freedom they might accidentally, actually physically rattle Brett for details. “He should ask me out.”

“Kelton, Ben is actually a nice guy. Ben is the kind of guy who makes it impossible for the rest of us.” The warnings and the context and history came pouring out. Someone should write a cheer for Brett.

Brett with the details!
Brett's the best!
Brett knows the whole tale!
Brett, tell the rest!

So Brett told me Ben's past, that he'd likely not had sex in two years. (That can't be true, can it?) That he'd briefly (and chivalrously) dated Anna Morris*, only to have her back away, that he'd been single for years, that he was good and kind and… and that he, um… well. Ben has one more great feature. Like a new-car-parked-outside-on-Christmas-morning kind of feature. And I was giggling, and I told Brett, when he asked if I was serious about being interested, I told him Ben was the only guy in LA I’d had a real crush on.

Brett shook his head and laughed. He told me he'd convinced Ben to ask me out. He assured me Ben was interested. I left laughing and happy that night, Ben chatted me on Tinder. At the same time, Brett texted me to see if he did. Ben asked me to ride in the morning. I still wasn't feeling well, but it was Ben. I was going. God bless Brett.

And in the morning, Ben, in his fucking fresh ass kit, rolled up four minutes late, completely out of breath and looking like the best flan at your favorite Mexican restaurant, just ready to liquefy in your mouth. So we rolled out. Me and Ben. On our 7:50am cycling date like fucking nerds in love. I've never been so happy. We talked about camping and how we got into bikes and New York and racing. I told him camp was in Texas, and he suggested brisket. And I said, I can't wait to have real meat. I feel like even when you order steak out here, it's secretly tofu. He almost stammered when he replied, you're not vegan or gluten free? I laughed and said, No, I have a rifle tattooed on my body. I eat everything.

You could feel this moment where he fell for me in his pause of gratitude and hope. That I was Midwestern, that I loved camping, that even on my sick days, you're going pretty fast for someone whose immune system is down. We yelled about making plans as I swung right up Ocean Park, and I laughed and raced up with joy. I opened my computer to see he'd followed me on Strava. Brett was right. He was a good man without conceit or games.

I know how trivial it seems, but his base interest in friending me that way was enough. I was done for. So I texted him, “thanks for getting me out there. Needed that. I'm free Monday night if you want to hang out before my week of free things. And have fun this weekend!” He replied, “thanks. I will. It was my pleasure. Monday sounds great. It's a date.”

IT’S A DATE. A DATE. He called it a date like a goddamn man in a movie from the 80s. So that's tomorrow. He gave me Strava kudos over the weekend, because these things matter, and they do. In the sphere we live in now, they do. I could not be more excited to hear from him tomorrow. I could not be more excited to taste the salt on his lips. I am fucked. Let him, convince him, bewitch him to kiss my mouth like I am his. Because I want to be.

When you have the opportunity to fall in love, just do. Again and again and again. And now, I'll dream of the way his hands will feel on my back and in my hair pulling me into his chest, shoving me against a wall. God let that be tomorrow night. Let it be what it feels like it will.

Credit where credit is due, it was a conversation with Neal that led me to Ben. Neal and I were discussing the idea of marriage, and he said that the main thing people misunderstood about marriage was that only 50% of it was personality. The other 50% was what time they get up, what they eat for breakfast, and how they like to spend their weekends.

I really liked Neal, but he was 10am, smoothie, comedy clubs, and it wasn’t until that moment that I realized I was 6am, bacon and eggs, camping. And now, I live in a cabin in the woods, and Neal is, well Neal is rich and famous and very, very funny, so I think he’s fine.

Wood walls forever.

*starred names made up, duh