I chose it for the right reasons. It was close enough to my children but far enough from their mother. I would never mow a lawn or lay pine straw again. The rich onyx of the granite and doors gave off a masculine vibe sorely lacking in the others. But most important of all perhaps, it was new – symbolic of the life I was to begin.
Making friends was never easy for me. In many respects I’m a closet introvert. I can emerge from my cocoon when a job calls for it, presentation, conference, or meet-n-greet. But when no one is looking, I’m that guy holding up the wall waiting for someone to talk to him.
It was January ’89 and I had just completed a tumultuous week of fraternity hell sealed by oath to never reveal what happened. After twelve final hours, aptly named Hell Night, of what I sometimes thought would be my death, the chaos ended in a drunken salutation that my blindfolded, beer soaked, humiliated pledge brothers and I were no longer toilet scum but members fraternally bonded in brotherhood.
Romance is very hard work; anyone who says otherwise is lying or not very good at it. To do so with reasonable hope of success demands intention, creativity, and humility. Romance doesn’t ‘just happen’ as Hollywood and Men’s Health want us to believe. The reason for this is simple, romance, before all else, is about the other person, to consider her wants and desires more than our own. Romance demands sacrifice; it means giving up things we want – something we aren’t naturally good at doing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13 4-7