Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

Dear World,

I met my future husband on Saturday. 

In the First Church of the Americas.

In la Zona Colonial. 

Pretty close to where Columbus lived and breathed.

His friend was wearing a Gamecock polo. 

So I told him and his friend I went to USC. 

I was being all casual and girl-next-door-ish.

They really dug it.

Then I told them I grew-up in Arkansas.

I think they were probably more excited about that one.

Weird, I know.

Here's the problem. I don't even know his name. 

Here's the bonus. He plays for the San Diego Padres. And knows where Fayetteville, Arkansas is.

Here's another bonus. My dad gave me his blessing for any MLB player I happen to meet while in the DR...
#score (or, at least, that's the idea. jokes.)

Here's the final bonus. He's beautiful.

Here's where the plot thickens. He had to leave before asking me to marry him.

No worries, I forgave him already.

We are, after all, in love and called to live a life of love. 

NBD.

Here's where I need some resolution. I spent an hour at home that evening going through every player listed for the San Diego Padres. With no success. Because I couldn't remember his name. 
(Did I mention he was gorg? Did I mention he knows where Arkansas is? You can't make this kind of thing up, people.)

But he's out there, alright. True love does not give up.

We can talk about how I forgot to wear make-up that day later. 

xoxo,

kme