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A meet-cute, minus the cute


The internet is equal parts awesome and infuriating.

I mean, have you ever used Amazon? On the other hand, Trump’s Twitter feed. The indescribable hilarity of watching Biscuit Ballerina videos on Instagram versus heckling from cyber trolls whose balls magically manifest behind the safety of a screen. Never losing sleep over the infinite unknowns of the universe because everything is only a Google search away but losing all the sleep because you read a tweet proclaiming that Tulsa, OK is the center of the universe and suddenly it’s two in the morning and you’re reading conspiracy theories that Paul McCartney is actually dead because you fell deep down the internet rabbit hole.

And who has the time to go into the pros and cons of social media.

I did stumble upon an internet gem the other day courtesy of the people over at boredpanda.com where someone shared an article published in 1958 titled “129 Ways To Get a Husband.” The suggestions are absurd: “Stand in a corner and cry softly. Chances are good he’ll come over to find out what’s wrong.” and “Make and sell toupees-bald men are easy catches.”

The writers at McCall’s were either delusional or had a twisted sense of humor. I read the list through fits of laughter then I stumbled on #34, “Wear a band-aid. People always ask what happened.” My laughter turned to serendipitous disbelief and I couldn’t help but reflect on how I snagged my husband.

If it wasn’t obvious, Travis and I met on the job. It’s not as if there’s a dating website just for people in the entertainment industry. Or maybe there is, but I can confidently say I wasn’t on it simply because I wasn’t in the market for a husband. Remember when I ran around proclaiming I would “never get married again”. Yeah, that.

I had just returned from taking Rinn to Panama City Beach, FL for five days; one of those freak occurrences where the theater was featuring another show so we decided to run away for the week. We had a wonderful time but I came home covered in a rash that continued to spread for days afterwards. I eventually found myself at an urgent care facility where I was told I had been attacked by sand fleas. Only me.

I showed up at the theater covered in visible salve and still wearing my hospital identification bracelet. Of course the new Elvis would be the first person I ran into backstage.

Travis took one look at me, clearly found himself in a state of concern and asked:

“What happened to you?”

Because I typically fail to consider how the words that are about to come out of my mouth will impact or be perceived by the people around me I responded:

“I have fleas.”

And I went on my way. In my mind no further explanation was necessary. Maybe he’s into girls with fleas, maybe I struck him as a damsel in distress. I don’t know. I should ask him about that. He will probably tell you it's because I make him laugh. Apparently I'm funny.

Either way, seems whoever contributed #34 to the list of “129 Ways to Get A Husband” back in 1958 knew her shit.