YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT (if you're lucky)

"I'll file a grievance!" I fumed as the paunchy, middle-aged union rep with a shocking headful of gray hair tried his best to calm this fiery, young, displaced Italian girl down.

You see, months before, I had chosen to leave the swanky new Duquesne Light headquarters in downtown Pittsburgh to take a job at their nuclear power plant - the Beaver Valley Power Station - in Hookstown, PA. I willingly left behind a beautiful climate-controlled open office space with a view of the city, after-work hangouts at exciting places, high heels, pencil skirts, and men in suits everywhere for a small industrial town, a dirty, hot block building, and tennis shoes.

I loved the fast-paced single-girl city life but definitely couldn't afford it on my single-girl just starting out salary. The cost of living and commuting in the city was just too much for me. I could rent a whole house near the plant for less than half of what I was paying for my tiny efficiency dump near Schenley Park. So I did what I needed to do to make ends meet.

I arrived at the plant with a plan to work hard and check the job postings religiously. I knew exactly where I wanted to be and finally, after months of watching and waiting, the opportunity I had been looking for went up on the board. I had all of the necessary seniority and qualifications for the position and, according to union protocol, every reason to believe the job was mine. I immediately applied and was already dusting off my heels, pulling out my pencil skirts, and planning my move from the loathsome Admin Building to the ERF building - the nicest, newest location at the plant and the only one with a dress code. (I know it sounds a little crazy, but I missed my heels, and I was longing for the professional office environment I was used to.) But I was passed over - and I wasn't having it.

My union rep agreed that the position should have been mine, couldn't really explain why it didn't happen and said he would support me if I wanted to file a grievance, but he had another offer. "What if we bump you up to the same pay grade and send you to the Training Center instead?" It was a newer building across the road from the plant, with easier access and parking (and air conditioning).

I'm sure he thought he had won me over, but I wanted the ERF, deserved the ERF, and pushed back hard on his offer. After some heated back and forth, he ran his hands over that head of hair, locked them together on the back of his neck, peered at me with amusement, annoyance, or both, and ended up convincing me to take the deal. So I went, grudgingly, to the Training Center, with tennis shoes on my feet and a chip on my shoulder.

"You should meet my boyfriend's roommate," said my friend, who I met shortly after my move to the new building and had offered to share her two-bedroom apartment with me for only $100 a month. (An offer that, even in the '80s, was an unbelievable steal.) "He works on this floor, and he's a Dan Fogelberg fan too. Oh, and…" she winked, "he's single!" I was the least interested in that last bit of information because I was definitely not looking for a relationship at the time. (It was complicated). But I'm pretty sure she was more interested in getting rid of us now and then so she and her boyfriend could have either of the apartments to themselves than she was in being a matchmaker. Still, she pointed him out to me, and I figured I would introduce myself to this guy if I ever bumped into him. And a few weeks later, I did.

"Hey!" I called out as he walked by me on the way to his boss's office. I was sitting on the edge of a desk just inside the doorway talking to his boss's receptionist, and he didn't see me when he came in. To this day, I remember that moment with crystal clarity - even what he was wearing. But, most of all, I remember his surprised/delighted look when he turned around and saw me, and how that caught me by surprise as well.

"You're Brady's roommate, aren't you?"

"I am," he said, and I swear those brown eyes lit up like a bonfire.

"And, who are you?" he asked, with an adorable, quizzical smile.

I smiled back and answered, "Just another Dan Fogelberg fan," as I jumped down from the desk and walked toward him - my heart beating just a little bit faster - and reached out to shake his hand.

"So, tell me, Brady’s roommate - what's your favorite song?..."

We had our first dance to "The Gambler" at our wedding a year later - one of Dan's best and (we discovered at that first meeting) our mutual favorite.

Everything I thought I wanted at the time was at the ERF building, and I fought hard to get it. But Tom Glaser wasn't there.

Thank God we can't always get what we want.

Me and Tom in front of the Training Center building where we first met all those years ago.❤️