In my single days, my friends and I devoured each and every relationship advice book we could get our ringless hands on. We adsorbed a few key lines from one and then raced on to the next — blaming the apparent shortage of quality and single menfolk on any number of things. Namely the vast quantity of cute little blondes. One of the lines that we quoted most often was: “Time spent with the wrong person is time wasted.”
We felt this addressed our tendency to hang on to failing relationships — ones we knew would never be right for us — or decide to date someone just because we thought we would never get another offer. Never. Most people in that part of the country married their high school sweethearts so at the ripe old age of nineteen, I had passed my prime. Hopes of getting a date were pretty slim (about as likely as my acceptance to WWF training camp *giggles*). Did I mention this was a college town? Well, I was amazed at how many people met at college and spent the rest of their lives in wedded bliss. How did that happen exactly? I failed utterly at that one, too.
So, I kept busy. I went camping, took random trips to the beach with my friends, traveled around the country, and rode my horses. After all, being single wasn’t a disease that required a cure. It wasn’t a life sentence to taking an extra long time in the produce section of the grocery store in hopes that I would crash carts with someone who met a few simple requirements: shared my faith, had a job, didn’t live with their parents, and happened to be single. It was on one of these trips, those adventures I was determined to enjoy, that I decide to leave Virginia and move. I planned on just moving to Washington for a few months. Just long enough to enjoy the end of summer and beginning of fall. A change of scenery was in order.
I met Josh just before the winter rains began. I was moving into a new place and he was preparing to move out of his apartment. We’d been neighbors and didn’t even know it. After having declared him utterly gorgeous, I promptly invited him to a steak dinner — my treat. He accepted and we’ve been best friends ever since.
No time with him is ever wasted. Not a single moment. On a scale of one to ten, one being the smell of papaya and ten being an ice cream sundae — he’s an ice cream sundae.
My advice to all those ladies out there who are waiting for the right guy? Serve steak instead of fancy girlie food. And never settle for anything less than your best friend — the one who will stay up all night watching goofy eighties movies with you, tells you when you’ve got boogers in your nose, mothers you when you’ve caught the flu, and shares your dreams and your faith.