I met my husband Doo 31 years ago this month. We were seniors in high school who happened to be spring breaking in the same small island town in the Bahamas. I had a rich best friend with a timeshare, and Doo had a family connection through an uncle. He was tall and skinny, with an impressive mullet (Doo, not the uncle), and for me, at least, it was love at first sight. Surprisingly, he called a few days after we were back stateside to invite me to visit. We married six years later, and the rest, of course, is Wilson history.
It’s a great story, right? Spring break fling-turned-matrimonial bliss? With our own children now around the age we met, I can’t help but think how crazy it all was. For starters, my parents let me travel internationally to a place where the drinking age was 18, essentially unchaperoned (there was a designated adult there, but she wasn’t either of our mothers and drank more than we did). And then to fall for a boy who lived only two hours north, and like me, heading to Colorado for college? What were the odds?
I believe it was fate. And so, when I give my annual spring break talk to my students about making good choices, I do in fact spend some time on vacation romance. “Be prepared for one of two eventualities!” I warn. “Heartbreak is the more likely, but you might also land at the spectrum’s other end: Three decades of marriage with a guy whose once enviable mullet has been replaced by an immaculately bald dome.”