Here in Utah we have an event called “Swiss Days.” It’s a quaint little annual festival, in a quaint little mountain town, with quaint little booths where people are selling quaint little homemade things.
I couldn’t even tell you why we celebrate the Swiss there, and I’m too lazy to look it up. Just know that it’s a must-visit if you’re ever in town the same time the festival is.
Anyway, this isn’t about Swiss Days. This is about a woman who was running a booth at Swiss Days… This woman definitely knew what she was doing when I met her. She definitely knew how to work me. And she definitely came out the victor the last time I went to Swiss Days a few years ago.
I was walking around the festival, enjoying the bounty of good food and all the arts and crafts people were selling.
That’s when I noticed her… The woman selling homemade soaps.
I was immediately drawn to her. I had to say hi. I had to meet her. I had to talk to her. I had to someday make her my wife and grow old and die together with her.
She was probably five or six years younger than me, if I had to guess.
She had this mesmerizing smile, which she backed up with a truly infectious laugh. It was the first thing I noticed about her as she talked to one of her customers.
She had long, flowing brown hair, and I’ll never forget her big green eyes, partially obscured by her swooping bangs.
She was dressed in some sort of traditional Swiss clothing, which just added to her already overflowing charm.
Her nails were painted crimson. I remember that clearly. They matched the lipstick she had applied to two full and inviting lips. I had to say hi. I had to meet her. I had to talk to her. I wanted to look into that face every day for decades at minimum.
“Hi,” she said to me before I could say a single word. I realized I had been standing at her booth saying nothing at all for the better part of half a minute already. “Do you need some soap?” she asked.
Of course, her voice had to match the rest of her… Pleasant. Sweet. Just the right amount of cheerful chirpiness to it.
Say something, dum dum, say something… “Ummm… Uhhh… How much are the soaps?” was all I could get out.
She quoted me something. As if I was paying attention enough to remember the price.
I tried to talk to her. It was all a blur, if I’m being honest.
I said something so charming, she giggled. I made a joke. She laughed and asked me about myself. We talked about where we both were from. We talked about how long we had both lived in the area. We talked about her soaps and how she got into making them. We talked about her life and her kids and everything else.
My head was swirling with excitement. I had never just asked a woman I had just met for her number before. I started to seize up with anxiety. I hurried and said something else funny. She laughed again. Whew. That was close.
I talked to her for at least ten more minutes. She was putty in my hands. Angels were singing. Love was in the air. There was no doubt we were meant to be.
There was more swirly excitement within the fog that accompanied finally meeting my forever someone.
I didn’t get her number.
I don’t think I even got her name.
Let me tell you what I did get…
I somehow walked away with more than 25 bars of homemade soap and a lot less money in my wallet.
That number was not an exaggeration, by the way. She definitely worked me, and she worked me good. No doubt about it. Or maybe (if I’m being honest) I worked myself on that one.
All I know is that every time a guest in my home sees the soap and asks where I got it, I think back with fond memories to the woman who will be with me pretty much forever in the form of soaps that are so pretty nobody ever dares use them.
Dan Pearce | Dan Pearce Was Here