So Happy Together

Welcome to the launch of what will soon be a blog read by tens of people across the globe. In this inaugural post, I thought it best to share with you, my loyal reader, the story of when my life changed, leaving me forever reshaped by love.

Now, I'm a painfully good-looking guy, as you can plainly see. And you would think women would be lined up around the block to have the chance to luxuriate in my chest (and back) hair. Believe me, I thought they would, too. But it seems in this era of worshipping at the alters of reality television and regular personal hygiene, a man with a certain old-world charm isn't welcome at the adults' table anymore. That reality was painful, but when it came, I did what great men always do - drink a bottle of spiced rum, cry a little, punch a hole in the wall, and wake up naked in your apartment building's entryway.

But then I bucked up and moved forward. If the ladies won't come to me, I shall go to them. But where would I find these ladies for whom I burned so badly? Well, like most young men in the Midwest in their early twenties, I felt the siren song of the Windy City bestirring my soul. So, never having actually been in Chicago or any surrounding suburb even once in my life, I decided to move there. I sold my house, quit my job, and packed my belongings in my Dodge Neon. Boom - like Cousin Larry from "Perfect Strangers," I was off, but (you know, since I'd never been there), not even sure where my new apartment actually was.

So began my quest. It wasn't long before I realized I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I went to bars with my friends and tried to make my move whenever possible, but I found (to my utter surprise) that I'm incredibly bad at talking with women in whom I have any interest. One time, in trying to tell a woman that I'm allergic to crab (why would this come up? Why would I say that to a woman? Because I'm Daryl), I must have slurred a bit, because her response, "Why the f*ck would you tell me you have crabs?" didn't seem to fit the conversation I'd been having up to that point. Another time, I was out with my roommates at a bar they worked at, and we were sitting with three women who, another friend of ours who worked there told us, were lesbians. Turns out, our friend was a jerk. So there I sat, talking about all manner of subjects with my not-lesbian table-mate, having a great night. One of my roommates then blurts out, "It sucks you're lesbians. You guys are awesome," to which my not-lesbian table-mate replied, "We're not lesbians." We all exclaimed in surprise, and then I saw my roommates moving in for the romantic kill on their not-lesbian table-mates. Then I realized what I'd been doing with my not-lesbian table-mate. I'd been hitting on this attractive woman for an hour and a half. We'd been buying each other drinks. She loved my football team. She was super cool. I was practically already in.

So, of course, I quickly left the bar, unable to handle the pressure.

The point I'm making is that I'm bad at finding love. Which is what made it all the more exciting when it finally happened.

I'll never forget the night. I'd gotten home from work and headed over to Armanetti's, a very nice, upscale liquor store in my neighborhood, and I was searching out a bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey for my drinking pleasure. As I was walking down the aisle, I felt a strange glow of the eternal, a certain tingling of kismet. And that's when it happened.

For the first time in my life, I encountered Oban, 14-year Scotch.

Now, I'd drank other Scotch whiskeys before. This wasn't my first rodeo. But this was different. Imagine subsiding your entire life on gruel, and then one day a benevolent worker in the orphanage gives you Oban 14-year Scotch. For the first time, I saw color. As I sampled its light, woody bouquet that teases with the whispered hint of crisp fruity flavor, I knew the joy of childbirth. With each reverent sip, I felt the exhilaration of reaching the pinnacle of financial success. I had found nirvana in its amber radiance. As I reached blissful intoxication, I realized what I had really found: love.

There are some in our work-a-day, cynical world who would decry my passion as youthful ignorance. "How can a man with just over one-and-a-half score years claim to know what love is? Just because you have resplendent chest hair, an excellent disco outfit including kick-ass platform heels, and outstanding taste in music?"

Yes. For all those reasons exactly.

So, as you slog through this life in the search for love, know that it's closer than you think. Take a trip to your local liquor store. If they don't have it, try a bar. And if you can't find it there either, order a bottle online. But whatever you do, never stop believing in the love that can be found encased in glass.

Oh, and just so I don't get in trouble, I should also mention that I met my wife in Chicago, too.