We've all heard a million sappy, romantic stories about how a perfect girl meets a perfect boy in a perfect setting. Stories filled with stolen glances across crowded dance floors... suddenly, the world stops spinning and the band starts playing, and *POOF* a perfect couple is born. You and I both know that these stories are bullshit, but still we listen. We listen, we imagine, we dream that WE are that girl and HE is that boy and that one day WE just may be that perfect couple. That story could be about US...

My hubs, Mr. T, and I have tons of history. We met a LONG time ago (more than 20 years now), but our story will not make you dream or imagine. Couldn't be further from it. At best, our story will make you glad that it isn't your story.

Let me take you back to Mrs. Huff's 3rd grade class. It was the beginning of the school year. I can still smell the crayons, the Elmer's glue...those God-awful automatic air fresheners in the restrooms with the half-sized toilets and sinks. I can see the horrible turquoise stone-wash denim skirt. It had a big zipper up the back, which I thought was awesome and made me look like a rock star. I remember the white shirt with the huge aqua tiger head on the front... still stiff because I had just removed the tags that very morning. And my bangs, OH my bangs. They were huge...they were puffy...they were bullet-proof. To this day, I wonder how any mother could let her child go out of the house looking that way! In those days, I was chubby, I had buck-teeth, and I wore disgusting perfumes like "Electric Youth" and "Exclamation!".

I hated being the new kid. My family had just moved to town a few weeks before, which left me friendless and alone. No one wants to be the new kid, but there I was...nervous as all hell. If I could have crawled under the carpet and died, I would have stayed there forever. (Or until someone complained about the smell.)

Then I saw him...*cue violin music and slow-motion*

He had a "preppy mullet" (if such a thing actually exists) with little curls at the back. He was bronze and sun-kissed from spending the past 3 months in the tiny town's one and only swimming pool. And his bone structure? Girls would kill for those cheekbones! He was dreamy and I was in love.

I got my seat assignment from the teacher. The desks were divided into groups of four; each of which had been arranged into a cluster. Each desk also had a name tag, laminated and carefully taped into place. I found my name, sat down, and started to put away my supplies. Then I happened to notice the name directly across from me......"Mr. T". That beautiful boy would be sitting less than 3 feet away from me?!? I hoped the Earth would open up and swallow me whole. I sat, staring at my shoes. I think I stopped breathing.

People who know me, know that I'm not fun to be around when I'm nervous. First, I start to sweat. I don't mean the "glowing" kind like most girls do. I mean disgustingly-huge-sweat-rings-even-with-prescription-strength-deodorant sweating. Next, I start to shake. Or, more accurately, convulse. I start to feel like I can't breathe, and worst of all are the butterflies. Not the sweet, fluttery ones, either. I'm telling you, my butterflies are like angry mutant kung-fu vigilantes.

On this day in the 3rd grade, they were worse than ever before. While the teacher is explaining class rules and procedures and expectations, I start to feel it.

First, it was like a headache...winding up my spine, leaving chills along the way in my belly and neck and ears. It went from there to my temples to throb and grow. I was miserable, but didn't say a word, for fear of making myself look like an even bigger loser.

So, I sat. I endured. I started to spin. And then? I puked.

I puked on myself, I puked on Mr.T...I sprayed the floor, our desks, and anything else within a 6 foot radius. The classroom was dead silent at first, but quickly filled with sounds of 20 disgusted 3rd graders desperately trying to get as far from my mess as possible. I was mortified and crying.

To sum it up, the janitor was called, the vomit was mopped, I was deemed an outcast, and was quite certain that the tan boy with the chiseled jaw and cheekbones would never speak to me...

I couldn't have been more wrong.

While the other kids made cruel jokes and tortured me over this "incident", Mr.T never mentioned it once. We became great friends. We talked. We dated. We married. We reproduced.

I'm glad our story isn't roses and candlelight. Our story is big bangs, bad clothes, rank perfume, and throw-up...

It's the most beautiful love story I know....