<\/p>\n

\u201cYou seem to believe that a man will drop out of the sky\u00a0right in front of you,\u201d my then-therapist said to me when I was 29.<\/p>\n

As usual, I had been lamenting my lack of a relationship while listing all the reasons I could never actually try<\/em> to meet someone. A personal ad (the Dark Ages equivalent of Match.com) was out of the question: I might as well put out a sign soliciting ax murderers. Going on a Sierra Singles hike would probably sidestep that problem by providing safety in numbers. But that, too, I argued, was only for desperate and pathetic people. I was feeling desperate and pathetic enough without advertising it. Besides, why spend the day with a bunch of other losers?<\/p>\n

Still, my therapist had a point. My friend Mary conspired with her by buying me a Sierra Singles membership. So I was stuck.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt least I\u2019ll have a nice hike,\u201d I rationalized as I reluctantly laced up my boots.<\/p>\n

I did have a nice hike. So I went back, making sure to choose long, arduous hikes instead of champagne sunset strolls. I figured that\u2019s where the men would be.<\/p>\n

My third Sierra Singles hike was a 15-miler in Marin County, up Pine Mountain and down to Kent Lake and back. As we all milled around the carpool point in Oakland engaging in the usual getting-to-know-you exchanges, where we\u2019d gone to school came up.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d some cute-enough guy asked. \u201cDo you know so-and-so?\u201d<\/p>\n

As it happened, I knew so-and-so extremely well; I\u2019d had a crush on him for years, but my college roommate landed him instead. The carpool guy had grown up with so-and-so.<\/p>\n

Small-world chit-chat developed into 15 miles of walking and talking about everything\u2014Prairie Home Companion<\/em>; how the subject matter didn\u2019t matter when the writing was great (c.f. Roger Angell and baseball in The New Yorker<\/em>); his sister, who homeschooled her kids and was, like me, a Virginia Woolf devotee.<\/p>\n

After the hike, everyone crammed into Red Boy Pizza in Fairfax for beer and pizza. Before we parted, Jonathan asked for my phone number (he\u2019d had few opportunities to collect any woman\u2019s number on previous hikes, as he was not clever enough to improve his odds by going on the champagne strolls).<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I\u2019ve met the man I\u2019m going to marry!\u201d I crowed to my mother when we spoke the next day by telephone.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou say that about everyone you meet,\u201d my mother replied.<\/p>\n

Fair enough. But like a stopped clock that\u2019s accurate twice a day, this prophecy proved true.<\/p>\n

Today is our 31^{st<\/sup> anniversary of meeting. That auspicious day led to 29 years (and counting!) of marriage, two daughters, and an abiding appreciation for therapy\u2019s art of gentle challenge. At the rehearsal dinner before our wedding, Jonathan\u2019s father urged everyone to donate to the Sierra Club. This weekend we recreated our Pine Mountain hike (we\u2019re still 15-milers at age 60, though we\u2019ve let our Sierra Club membership lapse).<\/p>\n}

It\u2019s a lot to celebrate, but today\u2019s ritual is my favorite: As we do every June 2, tonight we\u2019ll devour pepperoni and green pepper pizza from Red Boy in Fairfax, clinking our beers together in honor of all the years gone by, and all those still to come.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Have\u00a0you ever had to overcome your resistance to working at finding love?\u00a0How did you meet your sweetie?<\/em><\/p>\n

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