The challenge this week, as given by ChicagoNow to all of its bloggers, is to write about the most memorable night of our lives. I came up with the challenge at a time when I really had no idea what I would write about. I just thought it would be a cool challenge.For the past few days I’ve thought about every night of my life. It just so happens that this very night is the 13,500th night of my life. That’s a lot of nights to think about. Most of them just run together. Some of them stand out. I guess I should write about the ones that stand out.There was the night that my friends and I illegally climbed sand dunes and two perturbed police officers forced us to climb down the dunes under spotlight.There was the night that I took my family to Disney World in December 2009. At the time I only had three kids, ages 12, 5 and 3. The parks were packed. Magic Kingdom was open until 2:00 am though, so my wife and I brought the kids back to the hotel around six o’clock in the evening, napped for a couple of hours, and then went back to the park and stayed until two o’clock.My three kids and my wife rode the spinning teacups on the Mad Tea Party three or four times in a row. By themselves. With literally no one else on the ride. It was like I was a millionaire and I rented the park just for my family.No wait at the Dumbo ride. No wait! At the Dumbo ride. Do you understand what I’m saying? Pardon my French, but it was fucking awesome. My kids were so happy I wanted to cry.There was the night my second son was born. My wife’s water broke just after midnight. We were sound asleep. She asked me for a towel. Confused, I asked why she needed a towel. When she told me, I freaked out with excitement. We got ready. I left the house with no shoes on.That sounds like an episode of a bad television sitcom, but it’s the complete truth.We raced to the hospital. The nurses didn’t believe she was about to give birth. My wife—on her third child—knew different. “Hurry up!” I remember thinking. Still, they moved so slowly.Finally, they sensed the urgency. They called an orderly to wheel her up to the maternity ward. He chatted with us too much, and then ran her wheelchair into the elevator door.I thought he might be drunk, be he didn’t smell like alcohol.My son was born.Memorable nights are aplenty if you live. I mean really live. Live like you want to experience life, not just live it.My most memorable night—the one that I’ll remember for the rest of my life, the one that I still shake my head about, the one that leads to everything else—occurred January 7, 2000.My wife and I met on AOL. I wasn’t an axe murderer.We went on a date. I visited her at work. “Hey, I’m going to Finke’s with a friend on Friday. You should meet us there,” she said.“Sounds good,” I said. “Where’s Finke’s?’ (My wife grew up in a town twenty-five miles away from where I lived.)“Just get to Highland and ask directions.”That’s my wife. She didn’t drive at the time. Still isn’t concerned about cardinal directions, street names, distances. It’s all about landmarks.“Just get to Highland and ask directions.”She went to Finke’s with her friend and her friend’s boyfriend. I drove to Highland. I looked for Finke’s. Couldn’t find it.Up and down practically every damn street in Highland. Bars, taverns, pubs, restaurants. I think I drove past every establishment in town.Every establishment except for Finke’s.Finally I came across a liquor store. Hoping that maybe alcohol aficionados might be helpful, I walked in and asked the man behind the counter if he knew where Finke’s was. He didn’t.However, a scantily-dressed woman, roughly my age, who wore entirely too much makeup, smelled like a flower patch, and had just purchased a pack of cigarettes, had heard of Finke’s.It just opened, she said. There’s no sign out front, she said. Too new.No wonder I couldn’t find it.She gave me directions, which I tried to listen to, but since I wasn’t familiar with the town, I didn’t understand very well.Five minutes later I passed the building. No sign out front, but plenty of foot traffic nearby. That had to be it.I looked for a place to park. Nothing. Jam packed. The parking lot was full. The streets were bumper-to-bumper.Having already searched for the place for an hour, I considered calling it a night, driving home, and telling the pretty girl I wanted to meet that I just couldn’t find it.She’d understand, I told myself. My usual self-doubt threatened victory when I convinced myself she probably wouldn’t even miss me. Plenty of other people there, I thought.I passed Finke’s one more time, watched it pass in my rearview mirror, stopped at a stoplight, and waited for it to turn green.
As I waited I thought, “What if you’re throwing away something amazing just because you can’t find a parking spot? Wouldn’t that suck?”Yes, I suppose it would. I forced myself to do a U-turn.I parked on a residential street, three blocks from Finke’s and walked along unlit streets in the rain. I stood in line by myself, with dozens of other people waiting to get in. I felt like a loser since they all had other people with them. I had nobody. Just the hope of someone inside.I showed my ID. They let me in.The place was packed. Wall-to-wall people. I could barely move. I had little hope that I’d find this girl. I walked around the first floor. Nothing. I moved to the second floor. Nothing.I was just about to leave when I turned around and happened to see her in the distance, wearing black pants and a black shirt that sparkled. I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my life.I came up behind her, wrapped my arms around her, and said hello.My life was never the same.5,569 days, three kids, a house, jobs, and endless experiences later, we’re married and we’ve built a life together.I shutter to think what might have happened had that stoplight been green, and I wasn’t forced to sit and think for a moment.Good God, what if?PREVIOUS POST: This Blog is Coming After YouIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: That Time my Parents Thought I Was Kidnapped+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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