Sometimes I feel like I take care of my blog the way I do my
chia pet—only occasionally giving it what it needs. But it’s time to turn over a new leaf, time
to post like never before! Not only is
Valentine’s Day just around the corner, so is the release of my new book, a
romantic comedy for the LDS market called, Letters
To My Future Husband (available at Deseret Book, Seagull Book, Amazon and
Cedarfort.com.)
Maybe I should have written a thriller replete with double
agents and military acronyms (there’s always next time) but I wanted to take on
a project that would be fun. So I set
aside my manuscript, Yarn Balls, A Brief
History, and got to work telling the story of Sophia Stark, an advertising
executive who thinks she’s met her future husband. Griffin, her boyfriend, is everything she’s
been looking for as long as she doesn’t look too closely. Once she does that, her certainty about him
starts to waver.
Sophia’s road to finding true
love is not without potholes. For some, love
runs a smooth course. They meet their
future spouse in the lunch line in grade school and never question they’re destined
to be together. That’s not the way it
worked for me. In the lunch line all I
got was shoved against a booger-covered vent called the cootie corner. Romance did not blossom there.
It was during my freshman year
at BYU that I met my future husband (Talk about original.) We were introduced by a mutual friend on the
steps of the Cannon Center, and my first impression of Rich was that he had a
nice smile. His first impression of me
was, Hmm, she’s wearing a boy scout jacket (I was trying to find myself at the
thrift store.) That moment led to
others, taking pictures together in a photo booth at the mall when we hardly
knew each other, going on walks together, and writing letters, lots and lots of
letters while one or the other of us was on a mission.
Was Rich everything I was
looking for in a husband? No. I was looking for an Abercrombie model with an
Australian accent and a vault filled with gold krugerrands. Rich was a sousaphone player from L.A. with
an old Volvo. But the closer I looked,
the more I realized, Hey, this guy might
be the one for me. Twenty-five years
and seven kids later, the jury is still out, but I’m pretty sure I made the
right decision.
Okay, so I know I made the
right decision, and not just because of the time we’ve spent together and the
number of our progeny. I know it because
even in stressful situations he treats me with kindness, he’s a great dad, and he
thinks I’m gorgeous without makeup without Botox without even brushing my
hair. True, his eyeglass prescription probably
needs adjusting, but still, throughout our marriage he has called me beautiful,
and as we advance toward being card carrying members of the AARP, I don’t see
that (or his glasses) changing. Nice
guys do not finish last, they finish the dishes when you’re tired, finish
putting the kids to bed when you need a break, finish an argument with I love
you. They finish by you, with you, and
for you.
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