How I met Emily

Woman Seated under the Willow, Claude Monet, 1880

I hate February.

This column is as much telling how I met my wife as despising that awful month.

It was Saturday, February 1st, 2020, and I was thinking about how much I hated February. This was a relief from an average day's thoughts, which consisted of how lonely I was or how much I wanted to meet a pretty girl and ask her on a date to eat pizza.

I hadn't been on a date in months. My friend Mary tried to set me up on a blind date with a girl named Anna Beth Cloninger, but I don't do blind dates — too much pressure.

I wanted to sit in a coffee shop and read my book, The Sacred Romance, by John Eldredge. I wanted a comfortable seat, away from people (but not in a place so empty that it's depressing). I wanted my mocha to be hot and not one of those froufrou mochas that aren't actually sweet because they're "artesian" — get liberal with the chocolate syrup and the sugar, Opal.

The first place I went was packed, not a seat available. There were mid-terms at UT that week, and a few sororities had bedeviled every seat. The place was full of Macbooks with stickers featuring Blanche from Golden Girls, Taylor Swift, or curly-fonted feminist catchphrases: "You got this, Boss B****."

I walked back to my car, and it started to rain. I cursed Blanche and all the Golden Girls under my breath.

Vienna Coffee. It has a fireplace. I've never audibly heard the voice of God, but the thought was there in my mind as I ducked into my Subaru. Yes, yes. YES! There's a blue couch next to the fireplace. 

I held that seat by the fire on that blue couch in my mind as I walked through the rain. I could see it waiting for me.

Emily, was sitting in my spot on the blue couch by the fireplace. I saw her for the first time, and my thought was, "That jerk stole my spot." Back then, when I walked into a coffee shop, my first move, the most important ritual, was to scan the room for hotties reading books. I have a type: someone who can read. But I was so incensed at the girl in my spot, at this awful day and February itself, that I didn't even scan the room for hotties. I ordered a drink and plopped down onto the only space by the fire not being slept in by a homeless person: on the couch next to Emily.

And I plopped. I plopped so hard that the couch shifted backward 4.5 feet. I've been chubby since 4th grade. Anything I do that might be remotely attributed to the fact that I have love handles triggers an instant shame response that starts in my sternum and hurtles to my feet.

The "jerk" in my spot, Emily, said, "It does that sometimes." She didn't look up from her laptop. But my shame retreated into my sternum and then dissipated — safe people can do that to you.

I couldn't see her face; she seemed my age and had red hair (my wife hates eye contact). And then I "wedding ring-checked" her which I'd become a seasoned pro at by now. She was single. And she was safe. So:

"How are you?" I asked.

We started talking.

And the conversation faded.

And I started reading my book.

And I fell asleep.

I have Central Sleep Apnea, which back then I was too stubborn to treat, so reading by a fireplace with a hot drink put me down.

When I woke up. She asked me what book I was reading. I've had a traumatic experience with sharing that I'm a Christian with a strange girl at a coffee shop. This was a risk for me. 

"It's The Sacred Romance by John Eldredge. It's a … a uhh Christian. Ahem. It's a Christian book."

"Oh, nice. Where do you go to church?" She asked.

"Uhh, Fellowship on Middlebrook."

"Oh, nice. So do I."

"What's your name?"

"Emily. You?"

"I'm Sam. Nice to meet you."

We talked about church and people we knew, and given that I was starting to get a vibe, I asked if she liked travel. She pulled up Instagram on her phone.

"This is me in Paris last year."

I realized two things: her name was Emily Cloninger, and she was, in fact, very hot. Given that I assumed she could read, this girl was a stunner. 

But that name. Cloninger … Oh dear.

"Do you have a sister who is friends with Mary Lyle?"

"Yeah. Anna Beth. Why?"

I had a hot girl who liked to travel, went to my church, and could most likely read. Did I tell her someone tried to set me up with her sister?

She was a safe person. It was like that little chubby 4th-grader still so prominent in me gave me a thumbs up: "She's safe, bud. And look at how pretty she is!"

I told her, she laughed, and remembered social media stalking me back then.

That night, I asked Mary about her, and she said, "Shoot your shot," so I asked Emily out for pizza.

We've been married for 2.5 years and have a child with another on the way.

Now I like February.