When I was a senior in high school, I worked at a Root Beer Drive-In. I would get off earlier than my friend, Judie, who was employed at the local café. I liked to wait there until she was done with her shift. Mostly because I saw this good-looking guy eating there from time to time.
I encouraged Judie to find out about him. She gradually questioned him and learned that he worked for the railroad. More important, he wasn’t married.
I knew he wouldn’t pay any attention to a high school girl, so I waited until I graduated to pursue him. I got a job as a secretary at the local bank. Sure enough, I was in the perfect place to find him again. My gentleman came in twice a month to do business. I told my mom I wanted to meet this certain fella but didn’t know how to go about it. She said, “Send him a card.”
It was nearly Christmas, so I picked out a card with an elf wearing a bell on his cap. I signed it from “an admiring blonde receptionist” and mailed it to him. Instead of stamping the envelope with a return address, I ran the card through the postal meter at the bank. My gentleman was forced to ask Ernie at the post office which businesses in town had postal meters.
“There’s only one,” Ernie said, “and it belongs to the local bank.”
The day my mother’s advice came to fruition, I was wearing a red jacket with a black-and-white skirt. I watched him scan the bank until his eyes found me. My fella came straight to the receptionist desk and asked me out; there and then, I was sure my cheeks turned as red as my jacket.
I didn’t want to act too eager, though. I told him I couldn’t go out that week because my grandma was visiting. He took it well, and we rescheduled our date for New Year’s Eve. We dated steadily from that day on and married in early May.
A year later, I came across the same Christmas card. I sent it to him again, signed from “an admiring blonde wife.”