on the day that we met

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On the day that we met, I was wearing khaki Bermuda shorts and you had a name tag on that said your "camp name" Whopper Junior. We had just finished up week three of camp at Pine Cove, and I had spent all week trying to teach your cabin of second graders how to not fall off of horses (unsuccessfully, might I add). You were running around looking for a camper and I was sweating outside the camp store, giving directions to parents and trying to not look awkward (also, unsuccessful, see: Bermuda shorts). We ended up striking up a conversation: where are you from, what’s your major, what’s your real name (hint: it wasn’t Whopper Jr). We went about our business, finishing up the last couple of weeks of camp with some scars to prove it (your eyebrow still doesn’t grow quite right from an incident with a water bottle which is still kind of a mystery to me).

The last night of camp, you came up and asked to take a picture with me. We posed, smiled, exchanged phone numbers and nice-to-meet-you’s and then went our separate ways. (Months later I would learn a little more about that evening, like how you dumped an entire Nalgene full of water just to have an excuse to go to the dining hall to look for me. What a mastermind.)

After that night, I don’t think we stopped texting each other. You traveled back to Tennessee, and I went home to San Antonio for the rest of the summer, but we talked non-stop. Bashfully we admitted “I wish I would have talked to you more,” and “I should have asked for your number sooner,” which seemed like the most romantic words I had ever heard. A few weeks later, we chatted on the phone and decided that we wanted to pursue a dating relationship, even states apart.

Looking back, it’s all a little crazy. The fact that we barely knew each other, that you flew to Lubbock to take me on our first date, that we would only visit each other twelve times before getting married (WHAT?!). But I think the craziest thing is that you fell in love with me when I was wearing khaki Bermuda shorts.

Jordan MitchellComment