I love playing a role in someone's love story . . .
Not that it comes up in conversation often, but when it does, I like to take credit for the relationships I’ve helped out.
Probably the most notable was my college roommate. She had a guy interested in her, and she turned him down. A week later I asked her to help me with my homework. My homework was to ask someone to share a problem with me and listen. Just listen. And not give any advice.
So that is what I did. She starts talking about how she realized she misses this boy. She misses his texts and misses him coming around. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? I’m listening. And listening.
She keeps saying she doesn’t know what she should do . . . but I do. I know what she should do.
I keep mentally reminding myself to do the homework and not give advice, but finally I can’t take it. I tell her she has to call him. Call him and tell him to come over and talk and that it will all work out from there.
He is seriously at our apartment within five minutes.
They had such a wonderful, sweet, open conversation. I should know. My other roommate and I were listening at the top of the stairs. I wonder if she ever told him we eavesdropped that night . . .
Well, it all worked out. They got married and 10 (or so?) years and three kids in, they are going strong.
I also helped out with Erin and her match; although my part in the story isn’t as dramatic. She needed somewhere to be, and I told her to be with me. She came and lived in my basement in Cedar City. After a bit she starts going out and being social, and I think, “I’m so glad she has made friends.” But really she hadn’t made any friends.
She had met a boy.
I think you can figure out where things went from there.