“Choose your own Adventure”

     Growing up, I enjoyed a book series entitled “Choose your own Adventure”.  At key points in each story, I (the reader) would be faced with a choice – “if you wish to enter the cave, go to page 24; if you would rather continue down the forest path; turn to page 17”.  My decisions determined the outcome of my literary adventures.  Funny how life can imitate art.  Little did I know how my response to a dinner invitation three summers ago would forever alter the course of my life.

     It had been a hectic Spring, a period of transition, finish lines, false starts, and invitations.  The internship was over, I was racing to finish (a draft of) my long overdue thesis, and the new job would begin in a few weeks.  A couple from the parish had offered to host me at their cottage, and the departure date for this trip to the Maritimes became my deadline for the submission of that stubborn paper which was beginning to feel like the bane of my existence.  I was preoccupied; I certainly didn’t feel like accepting W.’s invitation to join her and several others at a Chinese buffet.  W. was a new acquaintance; we had met a few months earlier through a mutual friend.

     Truth be told, I wasn’t even supposed to be in Montreal.  Around the time I had met W., my marching orders had appeared in my inbox: “Report for Duty at CFB Esquimalt (Victoria, B.C.) on 1 July, full stop”.  Just as I was getting used to the idea of moving clear across the continent, I had received a call from 2 Div Headquarters informing me that there had been a change of plans – I was to be posted to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Qc.  I wasn’t going anywhere.

     I had to complete my thesis before heading East – I simply couldn’t permit myself to while away an evening making awkward small talk with W. and friends over a plate of General Tao.  What was one to do?  In the end, I made my way to Chinatown.  Upon entering the restaurant, I had to search out my party.  Eventually, I glimpsed the back of W.’s head; a woman was sitting to her right, and the chair to the right of this unknown lady was soon occupied by yours truly.  W. introduced us and I felt certain that I had met this woman before somewhere – but I couldn’t place her.  A single thought flashed across my mind – this woman is surely married.  What a relief it was when someone I knew arrived and sat across from me.  The assumed-to-be-married woman to my left laughed at the jokes I told during dinner.  We may have exchanged a few words, but I focused my attention on my friend across the table.  When this friend mentioned that he needed a ride back to his place, I seized upon the opportunity to leave early.  I said my goodbyes, dropped my friend off and then hurried home to my books.

     A few days later, I entered the address of the cottage into Google Maps and hit the road with the firm intention of enjoying my brief escape from deadlines and the apprehension of beginning a new job upon my return.  I was having a great time out East when I received a friend request on Facebook from that woman at the restaurant.  Upon perusing her profile, I concluded that she was single after all.  The thought that our paths had crossed before the restaurant still nagged me, but I couldn’t recall the circumstances of our first meeting.  After consulting with another old friend, the faded memory sharpened up… there had been a house party; she had been sitting at my kitchen table when we were introduced for the (real) first time.

     Once we became Facebook friends, she sent me an invitation to grab coffee; I promptly replied that I was in Nova Scotia but promised to contact her upon my return to Montreal.  (I later learned that this had been taken as an attempt to get rid of her and that she had despaired of seeing me again.)  As it turned out, I didn’t wait until getting back to Montreal; as I made my way back from the Maritimes, I sent her a message asking, à la Gandalf, if she would like to go on an adventure.  She accepted, and we laid plans for a date the following week.  As we talked, we realized that we had often lived in the same neighbourhoods and had been part of the same groups, but at different times (to this day, she denies having any memories of me before that evening in Chinatown).  Transitions, finish lines, false starts, and invitations.  Such is the stuff of life.  As for that woman and I, eleven months after sitting side-by-side in the restaurant, we walked hand-in-hand down the aisle as man and wife.