10 years & counting with ‘Elfin Bruiser’

I’m writing from a new marriage milestone.

Last week, my wife and I celebrated 10 years together.

That’s right. One whole decade.

I know. I almost don’t believe it either. We got married in our early 20s, just one year after college, nine months after our first date. Both of our previous relationships had lasted longer than ours did before I got down on one knee at Fort Pickens Beach in Pensacola, Fla.

Later that night, we went to Flounders to celebrate. My soon-to-be wife got on stage with the band and flashed her new engagement ring. A van full of oil wrestlers bought us celebratory Jägerbombs.

I know I’m a novelist, but I’m not making this up.

In our first year of marriage, we bought a house, sold a house, bought another and moved two hours north from Arkadelphia to Clarksville, all so I could chase my dream of becoming a head high school football coach. Three years later, I’d given up coaching altogether and started trying to write books.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my wife is a saint.

She’s also a former record-setting pole vaulter, a pediatric nurse practitioner, and the mother of our towheaded kids. Johnny Wink calls her “The Elfin Bruiser.”

She’s the girl I always dreamed of, the one I pictured in my head as a boy. We went to the same high school, my mom was her kindergarten teacher, but it took me going all the way up to Sweden to realize she was the one I’d been waiting for.

I never would’ve found her without Facebook. Back during my international quarterbacking days, I had hair down past my shoulders. I cut all that hair off the week before I came back from Sverige. I took a selfie and put it on Facebook. Mal “liked” it.

I immediately sent her a private message, inquiring about a date. Much to my surprise, she agreed (and has since told me she would’ve never done so if I’d still had my hair; little did she know I’d be bald and bearded 10 years later).

Our first date came to pass at the local Ruby Tuesday, the only restaurant in Russellville with a liquor license at the time. There were more dates, a whole lot more, but our time was limited. I was set to play another football season overseas. This time in Cannes, France. The French Riviera!

I couldn’t wait.

But then, one night in a December gone past, after we’d been to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra with my parents and my dad asked, “I wonder if TSO has groupies?” and the Elfin Bruiser responded by saying, “Why? You wanna be one?” I realized I’d been waiting on the wrong thing.

Later that evening, in Mal’s apartment, I asked her to close her eyes. I told her I had a surprise. When she opened them again, I was standing in the middle of the room, empty handed.

She said, “What’s the surprise?”

“Me.”

As much as it saddened the “Iron Mask de Cannes” (that American football team in France), I never made it to the Riviera. I broke my contract, got the only job I was qualified for — coaching high school football — and the rest, as they say, is history.

Ten beautiful years wouldn’t trade for anything.