I was running late for a meeting and needed a quick bite for the road. I stopped at the deli counter in our cafeteria at work. There were a few people in line waiting for sandwiches. I promptly ordered my favorite, peanut butter and banana on a whole wheat wrap when it was my turn. I'm a regular so the man preparing the sandwiches didn't bat an eye but someone in line did. He promptly asked me to marry him.

 

I had to smile because he was really handsome, tall with dark hair and blue eyes. I said, "yes." He asked me my name and we struck up a conversation. He asked me if I was an Elvis fan considering that was his favorite sandwich too, except fried. I told him I liked Elvis but wasn't ordering it because of some obsession with him, I just happen to like peanut butter and banana wraps. (They're filling and super easy to eat while driving.) His friend laughed and told me my fiancé was an Elvis impersonator. I wasn't entirely surprised, he looked just like him!

 

Elvis got my number in the sandwich line and called that night. He was really charming and funny, I couldn't help but swoon over him. He had a swagger that was intoxicating. We started to see each other regularly. He sold radio advertising at a competitor station, the first station I interviewed at, actually. It's probably a good thing I didn't get hired there, I never would have been able to focus…

 

Over the next several weeks, I quickly fell completely head over heels for Elvis. He drove 3 different vehicles, a Mercedes, a motorcycle and a beat up old truck. For our first date, he picked me up on his motorcycle in front of our office building and we drove to Cambridge for dinner. I loved hearing his stories, I laughed all night.

 

He was following me home from work one day. There was a man selling roses at a major intersection. Elvis was in his old truck. He yelled to the guy with the flowers, "Hey buddy! Give my girl some roses!" He paid the man who handed me my bouquet through my passenger window. I was glowing. I know it sounds silly but, he really was dreamy.

 

He invited me to one of his shows. He was dressed in head to toe white polyester with glued on sideburns. He performed in front of an audience of 50 to 80 year olds at a local country club. I was giddy. I have to tell you, I LOVE tacky. It's a sickness. The first time I went to Atlantic City, I thought I died and went to heaven. Elvis was the epitome of tacky in his outfit and even sported glued-on sideburns. He came back to my apartment and I watched him remove the sideburns with rubbing alcohol. I wasn't the least bit grossed out. Totally not like me, I assumed I was in love.

 

I knew my parents needed to meet him. They were planning to take me to dinner for my birthday so, I invited Elvis, too. The night didn't go as well as I hoped. We had barely gotten through our appetizers when my stepdad nudged Elvis and said, "Just so you know, we don't care about marriage, we just want grandchildren." Elvis' face turned white, mine turned scarlet. I couldn't breathe or speak. My mom just giggled. Elvis excused himself to go to the restroom. Ugh. What was I thinking introducing him to my parents?!?!

 

Things got worse. He came back to the table and thought it would be funny to scare my mother. Poor thing, she nearly had a heart attack. He came up behind her, poked her sides, and yelled, "Boo!" (Who does that?) The rest of dinner was uneventful. We took a walk to get dessert at one of my favorite cafés.

 

Can I just tell you? My mother is married to her fifth child. I am serious. There was a cat, minding its own business in an entranceway. My stepdad spotted it and made a very loud hissing sound to scare the cat. Well, the cat AND Elvis went flying. I wouldn't have been surprised to see Elvis attached to the ceiling, too. Good grief. Of course, me being the juvenile I am, I was struck by the giggles. Actually, it was more than giggles, there were tears streaming down my cheeks and I could hardly breathe. Shame on me. Since I was a child, I cannot help myself, witnessing someone get the crap scared out of them makes me laugh (uncontrollably) almost as much as someone farting in public. Juvenile. My mother's no better. Must be the genes, she was crying, too.

 

Elvis didn't last much longer. I asked my mom what she thought of him the next day. She said she didn't like him. When I pressed her for why, she blurted out, "He's a gigolo!" I exclaimed, "What?! Why on earth would you say that?" She said he "shakes his ass when he walks." I told her, "he's Mediterranean, that's what they do!" She countered, "Dad's Mediterranean, he doesn't shake his ass when he walks!" She had me there.

 

Turns out, she was right. He wasn't the one. How is it that moms always know? Annoying. Elvis confessed a few weeks later that he was living with a woman he had been with for 5 years. I was devastated. Really. One, I felt so awful that I was "the other woman" (granted, the fiancé, but still…) and two, I would have been tickled to tell people my husband is an Elvis impersonator. Priorities. In truth, I really was devastated. I cried for 6 weeks straight over a man who wears tight polyester outfits and glues hair to his face. Now, that's a definite "shame on me."