Thursday, July 21, 2011

Hark! A toothbrush!

Sam's apartment was the quintessential bachelor pad. Since I was living in a dorm, I was impressed with his adultness. He was something of a ladies' man; he was probably seeing several other girls when we met. His room was immaculate. There was constant low mood lighting, a lofted bed with a cozy couch beneath it, a coffee table featuring an attractive spread of coloring books. When I first saw this, I cut my eyes in his direction. We weren't technically dating, as I was something of a commitment-phobe [there were so many options in college; how could I limit myself to just dating one man?!], so he chuckled as he explained that college girls love coloring books. Sure enough, as I flipped through them, most of the pages had been meticulously colored in, with cutesy little notes written in crayon alongside:

Libby & Stacy love Sam!

Sam is the best!

Sam + Whitney <3

It was kind of skeevy, but his earnestness when he told me he wanted to date me exclusively, and the cool factor of his indoor basketball hoop and shaved ice machine dulled the throbbing creep alert in my head.

The living room was littered with road bikes and road bike part and road bike storage; Sam, I learned, was a competitive cyclist. I learned this when he hopped down out of the loft the first night I stay there at 5am. I groggily asked him where he was going, and he responded he had a four hour ride to do before class. Go back to sleep, he said, I'll wake you when I get back.

Four hours later, I wandered into his bathroom as he lay sweating on his bedroom floor. There, on the bathroom counter, was a pink toothbrush and a pink contact case. I was instantly confused, and yelled back to him, asking whose they were.

"Those are for you," he responded. "I figured you would need them if you're going to be staying here."

My heart melted instantly. Maybe this would be the man I married.

Monday, July 18, 2011

The Game

The moment I met Sam, I had two thoughts:

1. He looks like Jude Law.
2. I'm going to marry him.

Now, this was not an especially novel thought for me, because at the time I was 18, a freshman in college, and in hot pursuit of my MRS degree. So essentially, every other man I met was the man I was going to marry; I was ready to get the show on the road.

He had come over to study Calculus with my roommate, Ellen. A sweet girl, but something of a tease; she regularly drunkenly brought home various frat boys and fell asleep in her bed with them. They would leave several hours later, frustrated and vowing never to come back. Needless to say, I knew that even if Sam was interested in Ellen, he would be sorely disappointed in her usual repetoire: pulling a man in, then acting completely uninterested until she drove him away.

He and I chatted for a few moments, and I was all too aware of the fact that I hadn't showered in several days [it was freshman year!], was wearing no makeup and my nerd glasses, and an outfit that didn't match. Ellen informed me they were going to go get some food, blatantly not inviting me. I smiled and waved goodbye, waited several seconds, and sent her a text:


And then, perhaps a little too confident in the fact that she had, in her own strange way, claimed Sam for herself, Ellen made her fatal mistake.

She showed him the text.

The game was on.