The Man Who Cried “Unhhnnnhh”

Will Ferrell is a man whom people either love or hate. For some, he’s too overgrown-kid; for others, that’s exactly why he’s loveable. I happen to love him. He can sit wordlessly and get certain looks on his face that make me want to pee my pants. One of my favorite movies of his is Anchorman, in which he plays an overly confident news anchor, Ron Burgundy, searching for fame in San Diego. Inadvertently, he falls in love with his new female coworker. In one of the most pee-in-your-pants moments of the movie, Ferrell takes his coworker out to a nightclub where a musician plays jazz flute. After a particularly “jazzy” set, Burgundy does a little white-man’s-overbite dance and gutturally moans: “Unhhhnnhh, Unhhhnhhh—that’s baby-making music, that’s what that is.”

Oh goodness, have I already given away this post’s punchline?

Ohmygod, he was cute. He walked toward me—hair: a dark sea of waves; eyes: sparkling, with just the right measure of mischief; clothes: stylishly casual—jeans, white button-down shirt, flip-flops—and I prayed a quick prayer of thanks. Someone upstairs got it right this time.

“Heather?” he crooked smiled at me. I nodded, one hand outstretched, the other grasping my purse. He took my hand and squeezed. Momma always said that a man’s handshake tells a person a lot. His handshake spoke promises of hand-holding at the Sunday farmer’s market, after-work backrubs, finely chopped onions in the nightly gourmet meals he was sure to cook. “I’m Chris.”

He opened the door to the sushi restaurant he had chosen, pulled out my chair, and asked if it were okay if he did the ordering. Now, I’m a girl who tends to get a bit bristled up when someone tries to help me too much or take too much control, but on this night, I dove, head-first, eyes wide open, into his chivalry. How nice to hand over the reins for a bit. A little rest for this weary I-can-take-care-of-myself warrior.

The agreement was that we would have sushi and then go see a movie. Pretty standard, Southern Californian date. After a quick round of banter-boxing, during which we took turns wittily jabbing at one another in typical kindergarten love fashion, he suggested an alternative plan: “Since we’re getting along so well, why don’t we skip the movie? We can have a sort of progressive dinner—eat a bit here, walk down the street and eat a bit there… Sound good?” I lifted my sake glass in a toast of agreement. Could this get any better?

After the sushi session, which was filled with sake toasts and a shared large bottle of Sapporo beer, we walked down the street to a sportsbar where we shared an order of fish tacos and had a couple more drinks, both of our eyes crinkled with laughter. My insides melting at the comfort in our connection. At this point, I stood outside of myself and made a decision: it was time to stop drinking. I was feeling a bit too comfortable—too loose. Remember, I’m a girl who likes to have control—over my choices and my self—and my thirty-five years of experience have taught me that alcohol is a quick death for the control freak. So, I stopped. He, however, did not. He tumbled forward on the road to drunkenness. I stumbled, and then walked, back into sobriety, happy to discover that the connection remained even in our differing states of coherence.

We ended the date at a dive bar. I know, I know, bad news, right? A Beatles cover band played in the corner. By this time, we were holding hands. The night had been dotted by an occasional kiss. He had continued to drink and, by this time, was becoming a bit sloppy. He kept dabbing at his sweaty brow. And he began to grunt along with the music. “Unhhnnnhh! Unhhnnnhh! Unhhnnnhh!” I waited for the Will Ferrell reference to make me laugh…but none came. He was drop-dead serious with the grunting. I stared at him; hair: disheveled and droopy; eyes: glazed over; clothes: underarms seeped sweat through his once crisp white shirt.

Out of the blue, he turned to me and glared: “I saw you looking over my shoulder. Is there someone over there you’d rather be with?”

At that, I clambered out, head first and eyes wide-open, of his control-disguised-as-chivalry presence and the dream of what-could-have-been.