I met my husband on a blind date, having just been dumped by a hunk who drove a sweet, red MG A. I was bruised and feeling down on myself. I didn’t want to go, but my friend insisted I would like this guy–tall, handsome, considerate. Blah, blah, blah.
So, we met, talked, danced. It was fine.
He called. I was busy. I had to wash my hair. I was working on a paper. I had other plans.
He stopped calling.
Fast forward to a new semester. First day of “The American Short Story,” and who is in my class? Not the playboy hunk, but my blind date. Why hadn’t I noticed his smile before? What was wrong with me, anyway?
I smiled back. He was unmoved. I asked if he wanted to grab a coffee. He was on his way somewhere else. I sat next to him. He ignored me.
He and his roommate turned up at a mixer on the quad. My roommate and I were there also. His roommate asked my roommate for a dance. He and I stood awkwardly barely talking. He did not ask me to dance.
Finally, I took a risk. “Want to dance?”
He turned and took my hand.
On August 20, we will have been married for 54 years.
By the way, the roommates married too.