Remarkably Unremarkable

     I am a remarkably unremarkable person.  I don't win awards or leap tall buildings in a single bound.  My story won't show up on the top of the google search page or win best seller titles.  I don't break records or turn heads on the street.  And finally, I don't ovulate and therefore don't get pregnant.  So, it seems, this unremarkable woman created a remarkable situation.

     Back on November 5, 2012, daylight savings, a reluctant self accompanied a friend to another friend's birthday party.   The party was at Boogie Fever in Ferndale, a night club with a mixed crowd ranging from the newly legal to the night on the town senior adult.  The light up elevated disco dance floor overflows with bachelorettes, men on the prowl, and aging co-eds. Boogie Fever's music focuses on the nostalgia of the 70's and 80's with the occasional '90's and beyond selection.  The patrons seem to revel in the novelty of each song played.  "Dude, I haven't heard this song in like forever!" or "I f-ing love this song!"  can be heard after the start of every title played. 

     I silently and not so silently mocked the other patrons of the club.  I mocked the way they were dressed, the way the men used what they thought was their A game to attempt to pick up women, and I especially mocked the man we dubbed the "stone urban cowboy" because he stood creepily still in his cowboy boots and hat on the side of the dance floor and observed as though he was watching a performance.  However, my cynicism quickly gave way to my desire to dance and though my attendance began as hesitant, I quickly warmed up to the light up disco dance floor and all its inhabitants.  

    As you do when you are at a club, I stayed close to the birthday party group.  There is strength in numbers at these places.  One such member of the group, the birthday girl's brother-in-law seemed to stay particularly close.  He awkwardly, but happily danced near me.  He took breaks when I did, and offered to get me fresh cups of water when I was thirsty.  I had a feeling he was interested in me, but thought perhaps it was a classic case of beer goggles.  Regardless of the reason, as we danced, he stayed as close as he could trying not to seem presumptuous or creepy.  I remember the first thing he said to me when he leaned in on the dance floor.  "You have nice hair," he praised with an insecurity in his voice.
     I recall wearing my hair down that night.  Often when I dance, I pull my hair back so I don't have to feel the sweat on the back of my neck.  But this night, I allowed my auburn curls to flow freely. My hair was just growing out from a short cut I had received over the summer and had just reached my shoulders.  "I did have nice hair," I thought.  It was not the smoothest or most romantic pick up line I have heard, but it was honest and sweet.  I smiled, probably blushed a bit and thanked him.
     "Pat," (we'll call him for the purposes of this story) he announced as he raised his hand to his chest.  "I'm Pat."  His eyes focused on my face, I could feel my features filling up with the heat of embarrassment.  The expression in his face seemed to plead for a response.
     "Lisa," I responded.  He smiled a sort of half smile from the right corner of his mouth revealing a dimple on that side of his face.  When I shared my name with him, it seemed to relax him a touch and throughout the remainder of the night he continued to stay close.  When the friend I came with no longer wished to dance Pat continued to dance with me.  Time passed quickly.  When the first 2:00 AM of the evening arrived, it struck me that I was to teach religious school in the morning and it was time to leave.  Pat begged me to stay and dance, but I insisted that I leave for the evening.
     "Can I get your number?" He pleaded.  I have never been the kind of girl who gives, or rather I should say, is asked for her number at a bar.  But I was not surprised by his plea, rather I was nervous, embarrassed, excited, and even moderately confidant.  I took a large gulp as if I was trying to swallow the cocktail of emotions I was feeling.
     "Sure," I responded.  I watched his eyes light up and he franticly pulled his phone from his pocket.  I waited until he gave me the signal that he was ready and I recited my phone number.
     "Can I call you later?"  He eagerly asked.
     I must have appeared confused.  I imagine, I most likely cocked my head to the side, much like my dogs do when they hear a concerning noise and I probably furrowed my brow.  I paused expecting him to clarify his question.  He did not.  "Later? Tonight?"  I felt silly responding in this manner.  He could not have possibly meant this evening, it was already the first of two 2 AM's and I had already mentioned once that I was to teach in the morning.
     "Yes," he revealed.  I was slightly stunned.  I again explained that I was to teach in the morning and was planning on going to sleep as soon as I arrived home.  "Okay, then tomorrow?" he eagerly countered.  I agreed and, with my friend, left the club.
     It is entirely possible that his eagerness to call me that same evening should have been the first of what became a collection of red flags.  At the very least it probably should've been, what my friends refer to as, a questionable decorative banner.  At the time I rather enjoyed the idea that I was so enchanting that a man had to hear my voice as soon as he possibly could.
     That evening was the spark that ignited a remarkably romantic and agonizing relationship.   A relationship that would transcend medical warnings.   The kind of medical warnings that advise an unremarkable woman, such as myself, that to create a child would not come without the assistance of many costly and potentially painful interventions, and even then may not come at all.  
     The following day he called just as he had insisted he would.  I listened to the message he left on my voicemail.  He audibly inhaled deeply before beginning to speak "Hey Lisa," He seemed to hold the hey as if he were obeying a fermata on a piece of sheet music.  "This is Pat frommm last night."  He had the kind of voice one would expect to hear from a late night radio host; a strong resonant baritone.  Despite the strength of his voice, each sentence he uttered was lead in by a tentative um.  "Um,  I was just giving you a call to see if maybe we could talk for a little bit.  Um My number is...well obviously you got my number,"  He then listed his number anyway.  "Um give me a call if you'd like.  Um I hope you're having a good day.  Bye"
     You may wonder how today, a year and a little over a month later, I can still remember his first message word for word and nuance for nuance.  Stated simply, I kept this message.  To this day I refuse to erase it from my voicemail.  Every so often the voicemail is cycled through and the recorded woman's voice precludes it by stating "The following message will be deleted from your mailbox. Message from..." I allow the message to play in its entirety and then when the recorded woman informs me that the message is complete, I press the 9 button on my phone to save the message again.  Why do I do this?  This is a question I am not entirely sure how to answer.  When I listen to the message I sometimes think of that moment as the inception of dream.  A dream that would later allow another dream to be imbedded within.  A dream where an unremarkable woman could have a remarkable romance that lead to a remarkable conception.