Editor's note:
Sonja is taking the week off from Wink. Writing in her place, to provide a glimpse into what it is like to date and be in a relationship with this column's author, is her latest love interest.
She showed up as I was playing softball one night. She was blocked—suffering from writer's block—so she pulled into Doc Romeo Park to watch the final two innings of a doubleheader featuring the guys from PT's Tropicana (maybe you have heard of us), who are known to spark the creative muse.
I sensed, then, that things might be different with this woman, whom I would soon refer to as "Wink." She was clad in black and looked great; I swiftly made my way over to give her a kiss. The guys on my team, who typically barely notice my existence except when it's time to summon the leadoff hitter, suddenly focused their attentions squarely on me.
The questions were akin to, "What the ... ?" "Who is ... ?" and "Does she have a sister?"
And my favorite, "Where did you meet her?"
I just shrugged my shoulders.
This is a new state of existence, being the BOW (Boyfriend of Wink). Readers of this column (and brother, is this column well-read) will know this is a relatively new development in her life. It happened by pure fate; we were not set up by friends, we did not meet via speed dating or It's Just Lunch or on the Internet or through a personal ad.
No, we met in an inherently healthy and traditional fashion: at a nightclub in Las Vegas.
Within 30 seconds of our introduction she identified something about me that even family members have been slow to embrace—that I am square. I'll never forget the casual manner in which she informed me of this reality: "You are square."
She was also quick with character-building advice, such as, "Look at me when you are talking to me," and, "Never pat a woman when you hug her." All of that—and more!—was conveyed the night I met her.
Wink is fast on the draw, a wily conversationalist who wields an inventive vocabulary. Today, "skillion" is an accepted term; I think it's the next-highest monetary value after "bazillion." "Here's the shot" and "I'm just sayin' " have become familiar rejoinders. We seem to bookmark odd phrases. A few weeks ago we watched The Wizard of Oz at her house—I hadn't seen this movie end-to-end in about 20 years—and upon receiving his medal for courage, the Cowardly Lion exclaimed, "Oh joy! Rapture!"
"We need to use that," she said.
"Add it to the repertoire, definitely," I responded.
Wink is also uncommonly beautiful—her eyes froze me the night we met and she is truly stunning (she's graced the cover of this magazine enough times for readers to know that). Thus, walking through a crowd with her is to encounter hundreds of sets of batting eyes—from men and women—looking her up and down. We knifed through a concert crowd a few weeks ago and it was bat-bat-bat-bat. One observant gentleman walked toward us, batted and said, "Mercy!"
I had to laugh. "Congratulations," I said to Wink. Don't know if she heard, though, as she has this thing about moving around in large crowds that makes her quite edgy. It's OK, it matches my acute fear of men who sport toupees.
Those who know both of us—and it seems to be an ever-growing subculture—ask what it is like to be a subject of the column. It's different, a lot like being a player on a reality show (Wink Factor). I'm not certain I necessarily like it, but to be part of the column is to accept that you will be linked to that particular piece of writing—there is no choice, to me. Paint me silly, but if you are the boyfriend of a woman who writes a column about relationships, you will be in that column. And I support her because it is part of who she is and what she does, period.
But the column does present challenges and places unique pressure on a relationship. Should I have let my family in on this? Again, there seemed to be no alternative. They are interested in what's going on with me, and not to say something would not be a good idea (and it might lead to sentences rife with double-negatives). However, Wink is a largely adult-content column. As she has pointedly put it to me, do I want Mom to be reading about escapades far more inventive than, say, spooning? I can imagine that conversation:
Mom: "So, I see you have become quite adventurous with your hands."
John: "(Pause) Is Grandma's hip still bothering her?"
I think they can handle it, though. Finding romance is difficult enough as it is—and in this case, today, with no guarantees of anything, love overrides everything. There's a moment of magic that reminds me of just that.
We went to this big whoop-de-do event at Bellagio, where former President Clinton (who, I swear, did a double-take at Wink as he took the stage) was the featured speaker. It was fun, different, but a fairly short night—we had to get her home to her kids, her 14-year-old son and 9-year-old daughter.
As we walked into the living room we were stopped by a touching scene: Both were asleep, splayed out across the sofa. They looked as if they had been delicately dropped, haphazardly, into this beautiful slumber.
I turned to Wink, who had folded her hands under her chin. Her eyes turned glassy and were wet with tears. Her face was fixed with the most genuine smile I have ever seen.
Love is weird, you know? Sometimes you don't know when it starts, or why or even how. But for me, the when, the where—and especially the who—could not be more clear.
Sonja is a writer who covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?