So I’m looking on this dating site and I was drawn to this one particular profile. I thought the girl was very pretty, and she lived in Goulburn, so why not say hi. Thankfully those were the things I noticed, and not her profile name which was Purple Hippo, presumably designed in a laboratory as a scientific experiment to see if anyone would think “hey that sounds hot,” or chosen by Nikki and Jamie that wanted her to remain single.

 

I message the profile, or the person behind the profile, and she answers back, fairly quickly. And we talk. Or at least we type. A LOT. And after a while, I said hey we live in the same town, we might as well talk on the phone. She agreed. And we talked. A LOT.

 

Hours later I got up the guts to ask if she’d be happy to meet somewhere in real life. She agreed, but keeping it a bit safe and hedging her bets in case it sucked, she suggested meeting at the Rose Garden in Victoria Park. She was doing a Uni degree at the time (while bringing up two kids on her own, mind you) and took some of the Uni reading to the park. If I showed, well and good. If not, a sunny day was predicted so she’d have a nice day for reading and getting some Uni done.

 

Rewind a couple of hours, and a work colleague of mine, Melinda Bachta, asked if I could drive out to Crookwell that morning because her PC wasn’t talking to her printer and I was kind of ok at IT. I told her I had a date I didn’t want to miss, and she said it wont take long and I could come out early, so I drove out to Crookwell. As I’d mentioned, my back wasn’t very good and I’m crawling around under her desk, grunting and groaning and checking connections, and Melinda’s there with a big grin, which seemed odd. But she said, “So Gordy’s going on a big date. Good on ya. Hope it goes well.” And she talked about it with me, still smiling, and I guess it felt good that she was so excited and happy for me.

 

Since I was in Crookwell, I thought I might go to the IGA and get this lady some chocolates. I found the right ones, shuffled around looking at other stuff near the counter and as I was buying them, this girl behind the counter who served me was smiling, and I started to think… ok… maybe I’m looking ok today.

 

I started strutting up the street to Paul’s Cafe for a thick shake, and as I’m strutting I’m hearing the tune from “Staying Alive” (well you can tell by the way I use my walk…) and I go into Paul’s, look about a bit, and again… a girl behind the counter is smiling at me and it occurred to me that, due to some quirk of nature, I’m hot in Crookwell! If this date failed, I’ve got options!!!

 

So I drive back into Goulburn, listening to some Steinman songs if I remember, and I get to the park. I see her at a table, walk up and introduce myself. And I sit, and we talk. A LOT. And I do mean WE talked a lot. Obviously I could talk a lot even if I was the only one there. But it was lovely and I was smitten straight away. So I did what you do when you want to make a good impression… I told her every bad thing I could think of about myself, all my faults, the things I’d screwed up. And she’s still there. And smiling. And she didn’t run away. And we kept talking, and we agreed to meet for a second date.

 

I walked back to my car, got home and when I was getting changed I found that the arse of my jeans was ripped from near the belt at the back right through to the crotch. Holy Shit, I thought, I hope she didn’t see it. I rang Melinda who was excited to hear how the date went. “You won’t believe this but some time after I left you,. I ripped my jeans and my entire arse and junk were hanging out.”

 

“Oh, that wasn’t AFTER you left my place,” she replied. I could see you’re Reg Grundies while you were buggerising around under my computer desk.” WHAT! “Why didn’t you tell me????” I asked. “Let’s face it Gordy, you don’t have a lot going for you… I thought hanging your boys out there might give you an edge.” And maybe she was right.

 

My second date with Janet Clayton was a week later, and that’s another story. Then months later, I’d bought a ring and was carrying it around with me trying to pick the right moment to propose. One day, after shopping in Canberra, we’re eating at Goodberry’s Frozen Custard in canberra. There was a pause in our conversation (which I know makes this story sound fake, but it’s not). I took a deep breath and was about to propose but somehow, using some latent witchcraft or something, Janet said “If you propose to me at Goodberry’s, I’m going to say no.” How the hell did she know?

 

So I didn’t. Some days after that I asked her for a walk around Victoria Park. When we got to the table we met at, I got down on one knee. I asked her to commit to the silliest decision of her life. And she said yes. And a little under a year later, in front of our friends, family and loved ones, she changed her name to Janet Gordon at St Patrick’s Chapel. And we drove up to the Mercure (was called Trappers then) for the reception, by way of KFC and several other romantic locations for photos, where we toasted the rest of our lives together (she with a glass of champagne, me with a thick shake container filled with a chocky thick shake from across the road at the diner where Oliver’s is now).

 

That was 19 years ago today. Almost a third of my life and unarguably the very best third. Janet, you gave me so much more than you ever stood to gain, carried me through things I couldn’t bare alone, created with me a family, loved me unconditionally and forgave my shortcomings. And as flawed as I still am, I’m an unrecognisably better man for having you in my life. I’m sorry we met so late in our lives, but no-one else was more worth the wait. Happy 19th anniversary (the bronze anniversary apparently). I’m really going to have to come up with some flowery words for the next one.

 

And on the days you aren’t filled with joy at the bloke you signed up for and got stuck with, remember… that dating profile was YOUR fault. This is on you!