My sophomore year in college, I lived in a retired sorority house with 22 other girls. Because we weren’t part of an actual sorority, there was next to nothing bonding us apart from the fact that we were all mostly single.
I thought it would be fun to set up some of my roommates with my guy friends (inspired by the “Betsy, who was that cute boy you were studying with?” interrogations that occurred every time I invited a male study buddy over), and I found myself planning a blind date for 15 couples.
I ran out of steam after finding 13 dates, so one of my roommates found the last two – one for me, one for my roommate-roommate (the one I shared an actual room with). The two fellas she chose were roommates themselves (and cousins, actually).
Max, who had returned home to Utah after spending 2 years in Australia just a week prior, was 25 minutes late because he’d forgotten about the date and was on his way to meet another girl. The evening went as well as could reasonably be expected after that – awkward small talk, no hug, no phone number exchange. A week later, I found a note on my car. Max explained that he wished he’d been a better date and left me his number. I didn’t call. I didn’t text.
In the meantime, my roommate and his roommate had hit it off and were hanging out constantly. She told me that Max was surprisingly really cool, and told me I made a mistake by not texting him. It had been a couple weeks since he’d left the note, and I decided it was too late to contact him. My roommate and I agreed to pretend like I never got a note, and she invited me over the next time she went over to their place. It was horribly uncomfortable and Max avoided making eye contact with me at all costs.
Somehow, after weeks of forced hang outs and an eventual confession that I really did get the note, we started dating. We were married a year and a half later on June 1, 2013. I haven’t stopped smiling since.