OR No Offense To Those Who Are Team Nick, But…

Thank God I wasn’t taking a sip of the latte in front of me.

I already knew that he and I weren’t going to click. There is baggage and then there are full sets of luggage – and I wasn’t in the position to entertain the notion of rehabbing someone into a relationship.

But we were seated at a heavy wooden table beneath the log beams of one of my favorite coffeeshops on earth, the place that was once described by a visitor as the house at Pooh Corner. My latte had been perfectly prepared and I’d been looking forward to conversation with a stranger who might turn at least a friend.

So we conversed, stumbling through the process of feeling out each other’s personality and interests. I think we both cheered inwardly when it was discovered that we shared a love of music. I could feel myself lean into the discussion, more relaxed and instantly animated.

We started talking John Mayers and Jack Johnsons, and I realized that it was all going well. He made reference to country and I laughed as I recalled the excitement with which I’d traveled to see Garth Brooks and Tim McGraw back in high school, when I didn’t realize the world of small club shows that was waiting around the bend. I wasn’t a big fan of country anymore, but I could understand why he would enjoy it, so that was fine.

He was smiling and nodding he offered up names and then he rested his elbows on the table and wrapped his hands around each other.

“Know what, though? Know who I really think is amazing?”

I leaned back and tipped my head to the side inquisitively.

“Nick Lachey. I think that Nick Lachey is the male voice of our generation.”

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