I always thought that if I ever fell in love, really truly FELL for someone, that it would come out of nowhere. I would find myself completely blindsided by their presence somewhere cool like the train station or a coffee shop. I would be sitting at my table, legs crossed, sipping Monkey-Picked Oolong and reading Kahlil Gibran, or something equally philosophical. He would walk in, nose pink from the whipping winter wind outside, chin buried cosily in his handmade wool scarf he picked up while touring Brazil with the Peace corps. As he sets down his eco-friendly tattered brown messenger bag, his piercing aqua eyes scan the room, finally settling his gaze confidently on me.

"I've been waiting for you all my life," he says calmly, in a way that evokes both a sense of serenity and excitement. This statement is not in the least bit too foreward, like the creepy coked-out bums at the gas station that verbally assault you with their Hallmark diatribes when you're making a midnight slushie run.

"I know," I would reply coolly, looking up at him through my perfectly trimmed bangs. 

And just like that, the love of my life would break his way through my oh-so-protected heart (and pants. Let's be real here. He's the love of my life. Chances are good he's rockin' between the sheets.)

I held fast to this ideal for years. I told myself that no way, under any circumstances, would I ever go out of my way to search for my future betrothed. Hell no. He would come to ME.

This