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"  Back when we were in college, Lee and I had summer jobs working for Parks Canada. Part of my job included dressing up as Boomer, the Parks Canada Beaver. Part of Lee&amp;#039;s official duties was to act as the &amp;quot;beaver handler.&amp;quot; She was terrible at it. My costume meant a lot of things \u2014 I was hot, I was humiliated, I spent a lot of time staring at the strange yellow stains inside my giant Styrofoam head \u2014 but mostly, it meant that I couldn&amp;#039;t really see. It was Lee&amp;#039;s job to make sure I didn&amp;#039;t get punched in the nuts a dozen times each day by some jagoff kid. It was Lee&amp;#039;s job to make sure I didn&amp;#039;t fall into the nearby canal, my two massive teeth slowly disappearing into the inky murk.  Lee failed at those things. But by far her biggest failing as a professional beaver handler occurred one terrible day in June, during the summer of 1995. I was wandering around the park, minding my own business, just a beaver out for a stroll, looking for some cigarettes. Lee was leading around a class of visiting first graders when they spotted me and suddenly charged. I could see their vague, frenzied outlines approaching fast. I ran. Unfortunately, it&amp;#039;s hard to run when you&amp;#039;re in a giant beaver costume, and the kids caught up to me at the top of a steep hill. Then they pushed me down the hill. I barrel-rolled \u2014 my hula-hoop waist acting like a wheel \u2014 and ended up in a heap at the bottom. Before I could find my feet, the kids began beating the ever-loving shit out of me. I tossed them around, but they kept counterattacking. They were relentless. Lee, meanwhile, had collapsed in hysterics at the top of the hill. The assault finally stopped when one of the kids pulled off my mitts and found my clenched fists. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s a human man!&amp;quot; the kid cried. And they all scattered, leaving me and my various parts \u2014 those mitts, my shoes, leatherette tail \u2014 laid out on the grass. I looked as though I&amp;#039;d been hit by lightning. Not long after, we received a letter at the office, through our boss, Fred. My mom still has it.  It&amp;#039;s dated Wednesday, June 14, 1995. Dear Boomer, Lee, and Fred, We are sorry that we messed up your day. Dillon is sorry he yanked Boomer&amp;#039;s tail off. We are very, very sorry. Dillon and Kevin are sorry that they called Boomer a name. Michael is sorry for pulling on him. Cory is sorry for yanking Boomer&amp;#039;s arm. Adam is sorry for knocking Boomer over. P.S.: We had a very good time! Sincerely, Michael, Cory, Dillon, Kevin, and Adam Lee and I worked two mostly ridiculous summers together. Sometimes we held hands. Then we went our separate ways. There was always something between us \u2014 the unrequited love between a beaver and his handler \u2014 but neither of us acted on it. We were each with other people, and we went to schools in different cities. We&amp;#039;d settled on friends \u2014 until, for reasons I can&amp;#039;t quite explain, I finally drunk-dialed her six years after we first met and confessed my love. She returned it. That was it. I think that&amp;#039;s the reason we work: We weren&amp;#039;t looking for each other when we found each other. (We were so young, we didn&amp;#039;t even know what we were looking for.) We were kids who just happened to get hired at the same place during the same summer, the last in a long series of happy accidents. There was never any urgency, any rush to our love. We grew older and we evolved, two people slowly closing the distance over time. We were married long before we were married. We just celebrated our eighth anniversary. Somewhere, Michael, Cory, Dillon, Kevin, and Adam just turned twenty-one, maybe even twenty-two. I sometimes wonder whether they&amp;#039;ve cracked open some beers and laughed about the time they kicked the shit out of a giant beaver at the park, the way Lee and I lie in bed and laugh about that day when she was at the top of the hill and I was at the bottom and there was still some space between us. &amp;quot;Why did you run?&amp;quot; she always asks. And I always tell her that I really have no idea. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/lifestyle/sex/a9862/meeting-the-wife-0511/>