It used to pain me to admit that I met my wife online. As if I was too pathetic to find someone in the real world. I needed algorithms. How romantic!
That was 10 years ago, before online dating was as ubiquitous as belly button rings on 13-year-olds. Now, I feel like a pioneer in the brave new world. I no longer care that our relationship began via carefully picked photos and myth-building profiles (I hooked her with “I kill the Sunday NY Times crossword in one sitting).
My future wife gave good email right out of the gates. Feisty. Quick-witted. Goofy. Grounded. She wasn’t afraid to throw a punch. Or take one. Still isn’t.
For our first sort-of date, we met for a walk in Crissy Field at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge. I brought her an organic tangerine. I say sort-of because she’d brilliantly scheduled another date one hour later to provide an escape valve if I proved unbearable. I slid through, though she did disappear after exactly 60 minutes.
And here we are … ten years and two babies later.
She still gives good email. And even better conversation. She researches things that intrigue her. Makes a mean cioppino. Mothers our kids with virtuosic aptitude. Honors her parents. Laughs at my idiotic jokes. Looks hot in a long spaghetti-strap dress. And supports my creative dreams full throttle.
Oleta Adams sang, “I don’t care how you get here, just get here.” Even if we defaulted to digital technology, we got here. The laughter and tenderness are all analog now.