By Rick Eid
She had me at “You look different than I remembered.” It wasn't the opening line of my dreams, I admit, but it didn't matter. I was transfixed by N's earnest eyes, wavy yellow hair, and throaty Debra Winger voice. Twenty minutes later, I ordered a $42 filet mignon — and couldn't take a bite. I was so enraptured, I was nauseated. No woman has ever caused me to lose my appetite — though a few have made me want to throw up. Before date number three, I tried on 11 different shirts — beating my previous predate shirt-trying-on record by 10. A few weeks later, I walked out of a Hollywood soiree overflowing with uninhibited wannabe starlets so I could spend the night with N eating turkey meat loaf and watching Finding Nemo. The following Saturday I canceled golf plans in order to go dog-collar shopping for her chihuahua, Tito. The next day, we went on a frenzied search for the perfect espresso machine — even though neither one of us really likes espresso. It just seemed like the right thing to do. But I suppose the moment I really knew she was The One was when an internist was probing my prostate during an annual checkup. For those two invasive seconds, all I could think about was how much I loved N and how unfair it would be to get sick now, after all those years of being healthy and not madly in love. When Dr. Gorlitz removed his finger from my you-know-where (and nodded approvingly), I'd never been happier. Not because the exam was over, but because I knew my life was about to begin.
She had me at “You look different than I remembered.” It wasn't the opening line of my dreams, I admit, but it didn't matter. I was transfixed by N's earnest eyes, wavy yellow hair, and throaty Debra Winger voice. Twenty minutes later, I ordered a $42 filet mignon — and couldn't take a bite. I was so enraptured, I was nauseated. No woman has ever caused me to lose my appetite — though a few have made me want to throw up. Before date number three, I tried on 11 different shirts — beating my previous predate shirt-trying-on record by 10. A few weeks later, I walked out of a Hollywood soiree overflowing with uninhibited wannabe starlets so I could spend the night with N eating turkey meat loaf and watching Finding Nemo. The following Saturday I canceled golf plans in order to go dog-collar shopping for her chihuahua, Tito. The next day, we went on a frenzied search for the perfect espresso machine — even though neither one of us really likes espresso. It just seemed like the right thing to do. But I suppose the moment I really knew she was The One was when an internist was probing my prostate during an annual checkup. For those two invasive seconds, all I could think about was how much I loved N and how unfair it would be to get sick now, after all those years of being healthy and not madly in love. When Dr. Gorlitz removed his finger from my you-know-where (and nodded approvingly), I'd never been happier. Not because the exam was over, but because I knew my life was about to begin.
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