One of my bloggy BFF’s Soliloquy is having a little contest and she wants to know an embarrassing moment or one in which you sunk low… this just after dropping her sister off at the Greyhound station… and since I have a Greyhound story, and because she won’t stop bugging me to blog about it since I want to win the prize, I’m going to share it with you.

I’m somewhat hesitant to share this story with you having just come out of a most spiritual week and asking people to share where God met you…

So, I need to preface this post with “Before I came to know the Lord….”

Consider it prefaced.

Four score and seven years ago In 1995, I left home, Beantown bound for college. The short of the story is that I met a man, fell in love with him and the only REAL problem with him (at that time) was that he lived in Philly and I was, of course, in Boston.

I would move heaven and earth for the opportunity to see this man every.chance.I.had.

And I mean every.

Let me mention that I was also poor.

Boston was approximately 6 hours from Philly. I didn’t have a car. Neither did he.

But you know who DID have wheels?

Greyhound.

And they were in my budget. Oh who am I kidding? I had no budget. I had no job. Working was beneath me because it seemed as if every kid I knew on that campus was there on Daddy’s dime except me, and I had to keep up my appearance. Ha.

What I did have were credit cards. Lots and lots of credit cards, because I hated doing laundry. And when you signed up for a credit card they would give you a free t-shirt, prolonging my having to do laundry. A few weeks later, a credit card would come in the mail and I would have money.

Can I just tell you now that I was NOT SO SMART back then?

I digress.

Those credit cards and Greyhound were my ticket to see my man… the man that I was so madly in love with… the man that I knew I would one day marry and bear children with… the man that I eventually did marry and procreate with, but not necessarily in that order.

Yes, Greyhound was my ticket out of the hellish roommate situation that I was in and into my man’s arms. For a day or four.

I was invincible then, you know. Nothing scared me. I feared nothing. I would take a cab to the Greyhound terminal (and at that time they didn’t take plastic, so I had to scrape up cash) and I would purchase my ticket and then ride to Philly, always stopping to change buses in New York City.

NEW FREAKING YORK.

19 years old. Alone. Late at night. On a bus. In New York City.

(Thank you Lord for being there; for watching over me; for protecting me. It’s amazing that I am still alive to tell this story.)

I did this often. Too often, but at the time, it didn’t seem often enough.

Now before I go any further, I need to mention that sometimes, I live in a movie. I have life scripted so wonderfully and when I see an opportunity that would make for a good movie, I’m all over it, because, well, quite frankly, I want people to LOVE my happy endings. And while I’m not so bad about it now, because there have been more than one reality checks along the way, in 1995 I was BAD about it.

On one particular trip back from Philly when we changed buses in New York, I boarded and sat down. I was smart enough not to make eye contact with many of the other passengers because I knew that I needed to be careful and so when I sat down, I promptly pulled a book from my bag and started reading.

A few minutes later, dude behind me starts making small talk. I was careful not to look at him. I said a few words back, but I don’t like small talk with weirdos.

But somehow, he engaged me in a conversation and we talked the entire four hour bus ride back to Boston. We talked about life, our childhoods, our likes, dislikes, fears, plans for the future… you name it and we talked about it. By the time that we got back to the terminal just a few miles from campus, I felt like I had known him my whole life.

To quote 5,000 contestants on the Bachelor and the Bachelorette across the years, I felt a connection.

And that man that I was so madly in love with? Never even crossed my mind.

Sad, isn’t it?

I’m so ashamed.

But it gets better… or worse, however you want to look at it.

When we debussed… ha ha… get it… deplaned? debussed? I slay me.

When we got off the bus in Boston, he had some time to kill to wait for his bus to Connecticut. Since it was 1:30am and I had nothing better to do, I offered to wait with him.

Can you see how freakin’ smart I was?

Moving on… we talked more and I never once mentioned why I was in Philly other than to say that I was visiting friends… that wasn’t a total lie, right?

And then?

He leaned over and kissed me and boy could KISS!

There was a lot of kissing. And then? He was kissing my neck… apparently enjoying himself because when I got home, my neck looked like I was attacked by the vacuum cleaner.

I can assure you that it didn’t go any further… I was a “good girl” after all, or played one in my mind but I was rather ashamed of myself THAT night when I looked at my neck and couldn’t figure out how I was going to cover them to go to class or be in the presence of my few friends.

Despite that, I floated home. How awesome was it going to be to tell the story of how we met at our wedding? Two strangers. Chance meeting. Fate. Destiny.

Yadda. Yadda. Yadda.

He put me in a cab and sent me home and before I closed that door, gazing at him longingly, wondering if I would ever see him again (picturing a perfect movie scene unfolding) I gave him my number.

One last kiss and we drove off. And yes, I watched him out of the back cab window as he got smaller and smaller until he eventually disappeared.

Every time the phone would ring, I would hope that it would be him. It never was. I was excited to talk to my man and see my man again, but I would be lying if I said that I stopped waiting for him to call. For no other reason than to carry on with the movie script that I had a starring role in.

But he never did.

Over time, the color of my neck evened out again and his memory faded away… so much in fact that I don’t even remember his name. But Soliloquy’s tale of her sister’s experience jogged my memory about this time. The time that I had my first and only hickey (I hate that word) and the time that I was lower than low.

However, many lessons came from this one experience and ones that I carry with me to this day, so at least some good came of it.

Now go play along and don’t forget… You’ve got until Friday to share your “Where God Met Me” story… I’m sure He WAS there with me as these events unfolded, but I can assure you that I was unaware.

Until next time…

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