The phrase, "I met my future wife in a bar," conjures up
images of bottom feeding singles shouting in each other's ears to be
heard over the incessant boom of disco music — unless, of course,
it was 1971, the place P&G's, and the first night back at school
of my sophomore year.
The song was Layla, the second
part, where Dwayne Allman's slide guitar mimics the tweeting
of birds over that memorable piano instrumental.
I saw her
bopping to the beat, and asked her to dance. We moved effortlessly
together, letting the music take us. All was well until I
spoke. I took her by the hand and led her across the floor
to my new Crispell Hall suite mate, whom I had vaguely known
the term before from an oral interpretation class.
"I'd like you to meet one of my best friends," I exclaimed, and suavely placed her face to face with her recent ex-boyfriend, whom she had been carefully avoiding all night. "Very funny," she retorted. "I'll never speak to you again." Fortunately for us and our progeny, she was not true to her word.
