Our Story

By Michelle

Michelle and Matt, circa 1999. How is he taller than me?

This is what I pictured love to look like: Moonlight walks. Trips to art museums. Passionate discussions about faith over fondue, politics over pinot noir. Slow dancing to Sinatra classics in the kitchen. Sitting on the porch swing and watching the sun rise.

(I watch way too many rom-coms, I know.)

And, of course, I envisioned the man. He’d be dreamy, no doubt. My very own Hugh Grant. Perhaps he wouldn’t be unlike my first serious boyfriend, who on paper, was a Grade A catch. Tall and conventionally handsome. A modern-day Einstein (graduated something-cum-laude.) Worldly and articulate. Sensitive and romantic. What wasn’t to be impressed by? His very first gift to me was Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, which, I learned via CliffsNotes, recounts the wartime romance between an American soldier and a British nurse. So what if my usual reading material was limited to Us Weekly? I was in awe. I nodded with (some) interest as he spoke about international trade, foreign films and his plans to one day run for office. Sure, there were many times I felt inadequate (or even plain dumb) around him, but he was sweet and I was happy to be in a grownup, sparkling-on-the-outside relationship. When we eventually ended things, I had my type.

For me, this — or something like it — was how it was supposed to be. This is what love was supposed to look like.

Later on, in meeting men, I was armed with a checklist.

I knew exactly what I wanted.

And then.

I met Matt in high school (different crowds, never really talked), but didn’t think of him again until I started mindlessly clicking through Friendster one day after college. I recognized his picture, and in my Pokemon-like gotta-catch-’em-all quest for “friends,” I added him. He messaged me with something witty (don’t remember), I messaged him back. We started chatting, learned we lived in neighboring cities and, with nothing better to do one Saturday night, made plans to meet up.

It was an effortless reunion, a good time, for sure, and our meet-up led to subsequent ones. He was cute in that lemme-pinch-your-cheeks sort of way, but romance was nowhere on the brain. Matt wasn’t my type. He was a short IT guy who lived with his parents. He wore trucker hats tagged with words like “DORK” and years-old Converse sneakers patched up with duct tape. He proudly showed me a photo-chop he made of himself reading the paper on a toilet in his front yard and bragged about the time he filled his friend’s car with packing peanuts. He sang along loudly to MxPx tracks blaring in the car and drummed on the steering wheel at stoplights. He impersonated Peter Griffin often.

No, not my type at all.

Still, he was fun and we started hanging out almost every weekend. He provided a listening ear as I lamented my hopeless job hunt, and taught me valuable skills such as how to do The Robot, make my beer bottles whistle and hide the unwanted rice at all-you-can-eat sushi restaurants. We’d waste away our afternoons quoting South Park and sitting side-by-side playing Space Wars on our cell phones. We laughed nonstop. With him, I felt at ease. I felt balanced. I felt alive.

But when friends would ask whether I’d consider dating him, I’d say no, no, no. Not Matt. He’s not my type. This is what friendship looks like, not love.

I fought it for months. I was still on a casual lookout for that other guy, the one I built in my head. But day by day, his face started to fade. And suddenly, I started picturing Matt. I found myself smiling the moment I’d see his name appear on my Caller ID and wouldn’t be able to wipe off that goofy grin even after I hung up the phone. On the days we didn’t see each other, I’d miss him. He was winning me over, slowly but truly. He was confident and kind. He was different. I was different.

Then one night, while sitting in a dark lounge, we stopped laughing for a moment and kissed.

Another night after that, we became official.

Today, this is what love looks like: Him and me, two dorks who prefer pizza to pate, who’d usually rather sit on the couch with a Jack Black flick than go to some exhibit. Sometimes, I think that we were somehow made for each other. And I’m in awe.

It’s funny how love gets to you, how it doesn’t really care what you want, but caters only to what you need.

Matt’s very first gift to me was a giant cardboard box wrapped in multiple layers of newspaper ads. Pretty on the outside? Not exactly. Adorable? Totally. Inside was an endless supply of Flaming Hot Cheetos, my all-time favorite snack.

That’s when I knew.

He was, indeed, just my type.