I can’t remember the exact moment I laid eyes on Nicole, or even when we were first introduced, but I can remember the first moment we shared together. I’m pretty sure most of the people in that elevator remember it too. I kinda wish they didn’t. As with most of what I do, it started with a fleeting thought of “This will be funny”.

Let me backup a second. Nicole and I met in a graduate school at Syracuse University, where we would eventually earn our Masters Degree in Museum Studies. Before graduating from Castleton State University, Nicole spent the winter and spring meticulously researching graduate programs, searching for an apartment in Syracuse, and budgeting. I graduated from the College of the Holy Cross a summer earlier, and largely spent time cleaning carpets part time, drinking beer, and living at my parents, with my future plans largely boiling down to “Eh, something will come up”. Meanwhile, a destiny awaited.

To make a long story fairly short, I decided to actually turn my history degree into something related and ended up in the same Syracuse University Museum Studies program as Nicole. And that’s how we ended up in that elevator. It was the first day of orientation for the program, and I walked into the building knowing absolutely no one. I decided to make friends the old fashioned way: awkwardly interjecting small talk into other people’s conversations and hoping they wouldn’t stare at me until I went away. My plan was foolproof.

Until one of the office administrators decided to take us on a tour of the building. Approximately a dozen wide eyed museum nerds, including myself and the woman I would one day decide to marry, piled into the elevator with our guide. He took us to one floor to show us a classroom, and then we piled back into that steel box of silence and awkwardness to take us to another floor. Arriving at the third level, the doors slid open, and as we all went to pile out, the guide stopped us, saying “oh no, wrong floor, we have to go up one more”.

Inspiration struck. I knew it was my moment, my time to break the silence with a perfectly timed one liner. Everyone would laugh, I’d instantly become super popular, and all would be smooth sailing.

“Well if you’re getting lost I don’t know if there’s any hope for us”.

The silence was deafening. My smile faded. Someone in the back of that cube of shame stifled a quiet cough. We rode back down to the lobby without another word.

Was I proud of that joke? Not particularly. Little did I know that at least one person, a cute girl standing in the far corner of that elevator, had actually chuckled. Not loud enough to make me feel good about myself mind you, but she laughed.

I met her at a party a few days later. Her name was Nicole. She laughed at a lot more of my jokes that night. I had did it. I made a friend. She was from Vermont.

That cute brown haired girl and I took classes together, went to parties with our friends, went to lunch between classes, getting to know each other. We even shared out mutual love of Chipotle.

One day in February, we decided to go to dinner after class together. Just the two of us. You know, like a date.

Pretty soon we moved into together. We adopted a kitten and named him Vlad (like the impaler). We found jobs and moved again, this time to Connecticut.

Over 4 years, things haven’t changed too much. She laughs a little louder at my jokes. She still plans everything down to the smallest detail, which let me tell you, is incredibly helpful. I still give her a hard time because she can’t remember any celebrity’s name and because she makes fun of my Italian heritage by saying “Lasagna” with an exaggerated accent and hand motion. But we wouldn’t change a thing. I could not be happier that she said yes, and that she is actually going to be stuck with me (despite repeated warnings from my mother that she could, in fact, still walk away and not have to put up with my nonsense). Love you Mom!

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