Rob and I had been pen pals for about a month and a half when we went on our first date. It was the olden days, when people used paper and pens to craft their thoughts instead of memes, GIFS, and emojis. You know, 30 years ago.
Prodded by a mutual friend (the longer story is much more juicy), Rob sent me a letter hoping but not expecting me to remember him. We had met about three years prior when I needed to check out the guy our now mutual friend was pretty sure she was going to marry. (See? Juicy!)
Rob’s letter opened with: “Hello. Do you remember me?”
At the end of the letter:
“So now you’ve been bothered by, and know more than you really wanted to, about a weird guy you’ve met once or twice. Please restrain your excitement… If you’re really bored one night and have nothing better to do, drop me a line. Anything’s better than bills.”
I immediately wrote Rob back:
“Of course I remember you. I used to hear about you ALL THE TIME…”
I had just graduated from college and had moved back in with my parents while looking for my first Real World Job. All my friends were still in school (I graduated a couple quarters early), so I was eager for advice and commiseration from someone who had navigated the path I was just embarking on. Even if he was 400 miles away.
Long letters were quickly exchanged, often a couple of times per week. We were getting to know each other through letters and doodles. I was really liking Rob. But nothing romantic was happening.
On January 28, 1990 Rob wrote:
“I might be up there for a weekend early in March – want to go to dinner? (Boy – things are slow. I’ve just asked a girl I kinda know who’s 400 miles away out to dinner more than a month from now. No knock on you, but boy do I need help!)”
Three days later I replied:
“By the way, I’d love to go out to dinner when you come up. Yes, you certainly know how to charm a girl (even one who normally insists on referring to herself as a woman!).”
And that brings us to Saturday, March 10, 1990.
I spent most of the afternoon trying to decide what to wear. I finally settled on a very chic all-black outfit – black slacks, black long-sleeve sweater top, black shoes. I accessorized with funky earrings that were profiles of a person’s face with a fake diamond as the eye. I was 22 and had just graduated from a liberal hippie college rife with tie dye and Birkenstocks. My ensemble truly was my best Going Out On A Date In the Big City effort.
Rob was running late. He had spent the day in Golden Gate Park with the friend he was visiting. When he finally rang my parents’ doorbell, I opened the door with my mom protectively lurking nearby. Rob was wearing a knitted turquoise and navy sweater, jeans, and white tennis shoes. I felt a mixture of disappointment and annoyance that I had spent so much effort choosing my sophisticated outfit. We clearly had different ideas about the evening’s dress code.
I should insert here that Rob’s first impression of my outfit was (much) later reported to be: “Why all the black? Does she think we’re going to a funeral?”
Despite our mutual eyerollings at each other’s attire, we waved goodbye to my parents and happily set off across the Oakland Bay Bridge to San Francisco for dinner and a show.
As we drove along with windshield wipers sporadically swishing, Rob and I got into a spirited debate – that continues to this day – about the critical differences between clouds and fog. It was fun, good-natured, easy banter. I was totally relaxed, totally myself, totally psyched to be hanging out with what already felt like a really good friend.
We parked in the Embarcadero and headed to a fancy-ish rib place called MacArthur Park for dinner. It was the sort of place with linen table cloths covered with white butcher paper. It was the sort of place that offered cocktails and bibs. It was the sort of place that welcomed both jeans and funeral attire. It was the sort of place one might return to 9 months later for a wedding lunch.
As we waited for our entrees to arrive, I decided to make use of the small glass of crayons lingering next to the salt and pepper shakers. Rob and I chatted while I drew an outline of my left hand on the butcher paper. He then did something that made my heart flip. Grabbing a couple of crayons, Rob leaned across the table and started to help me decorate my Hand Turkey. I was a goner.
You see, my serious boyfriend in college hated that side of me. The playful, not entirely mature, refusing-to-grow-up side of me. Yes, I can be a full fledged adult when I need to be…but life is too short to be all adulty and serious all of the time (please see so very many entries about Fairs and llamas).
When Rob not only tolerated but embraced and participated in my grade school dining activity, well, I kinda really seriously started falling for him. Hard.
After dinner, we headed upstairs to a comedy club. Standing in line, with our IDs in hand, I asked Rob if I could see his driver’s license. His hesitancy became clear when a few moments later I excitedly revealed his secret, “Hey! Wait a minute. Today is your birthday!”
Yep, Rob was turning 24 that day and had chosen not to tell me because he is really not much of a birthday guy. Accordingly, for the past 29 years he has celebrated today as The Anniversary of Our First Date while I give him presents to celebrate his birth. He’s mostly ok with my added celebration because, well, gifts.
We got settled at a small cocktail table near a brick wall at The Punch Line Comedy Club – which, unlike MacArthur Park, is still there. The featured performers were a barely memorable mime, Henry Cho, and Tom Kenny.
Tom Kenny, Tom Kenny. Is that name familiar? If you are of a certain age, it should be. Yes, we saw THAT Tom Kenny of pineapple huts and Bikini Bottom fame. A decade before the voice of SpongeBob SquarePants became legendary among millennial kids and kids at heart, Tom did stand-up in comedy clubs around the country. Telling teens and young adults that Rob and I saw the real live SpongeBob on our first date has since become one of my favorite party tricks.
Rob and I had a hoot at the comedy show. The comedians – not the mime – were hysterical. The best part of the experience, though, was realizing very quickly and very definitively that Rob and I share a quirky, odd sense of humor.
There were moments during the sets when the audience was roaring and we were just snickering. More fun and instructive, though, were the jokes that fell flat except for that young couple in the back laughing themselves silly over a joke that nobody else found amusing. In the 30 years since, Rob and I have been lone laughers many times. It’s one of my favorite parts of our marriage.
After the show, I wasn’t ready for the night to end. I was really liking Rob and I decided I wanted to give him an opportunity to kiss me. So I suggested we head to one of my favorite spots in the Bay Area. No, not for kissing. Just for seeing.
The top of the old military bunkers in the Marin Headlands used to be an in-the-know locals spot to gaze upon San Francisco and feel like you could almost touch the Golden Gate Bridge below you. These days, it’s a tourist spot and included on most SF Greyline tours. Nevertheless, it is a gorgeous view, especially at night. It can also get a bit blustery, so I thought maybe a pretty view and the need to snuggle a little to keep warm might inspire a smooch. Spoiler alert: Rob was kinda dense back then.
We trudged out on the dirt path from the parking lot, our way illuminated only by the moon, the city lights, and the glow of the Golden Gate Bridge. Romantic, right? I sure thought so.
We sat on the cold cement, wind swirling around us, arms barely touching, lips miles apart. We chatted, looked at the stars, watched the cars on the iconic bridge below, pointed out landmarks in the San Francisco cityscape. We sat there until I was a deflated popsicle. We walked back to Rob’s car, me wondering if he liked me “that way” at all.
Discussing the best route back to my parents’ house, we proclaimed it a Three Bridge Night and headed north through Marin to then head east over the Richmond San Rafael Bridge. Along the way, Rob realized he needed gas. We stopped at a Shell station. He pumped gas while I stayed warm in the passenger seat.
When Rob reentered his blue Chevy Beretta, he shyly but hopefully presented me with a single rose. Its stem was stuffed in a tube of water and the rose itself was wrapped in a sheet of thick clear plastic that was taped together. It no doubt had been displayed in a black tub next to the Slim Jims.
In true Bachelor fashion, I quickly accepted Rob’s rose, filled with relief that I wasn’t the only one thinking this was turning out to be a date after all. I have received many Gas Station Roses over the past 30 years. Rob truly is romantic.
I don’t remember what time we finally got back to my parents’ house that night, but it was late. I do remember that Rob finally got the message…and the courage…and kissed me.
Four months later we were engaged. Five months after that we were married. Thirty years later, I still think about that Hand Turkey and fall in love with Rob all over again.
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