I learned this morning that I’ve been living a lie.
And it’s the fault of those friends I blogged about earlier this week.
Turns out our friends brought my lovely wife a packet full of letters that she wrote to her friend, including letters from my wife’s first year at college. Some of those letters from our first year in college mention me. And how we met.
(Here’s comes the lie.)
I have for years (35 of them, in fact) been telling the story that we met on the first Friday of our freshman year. Say it out loud. First Friday of our freshman year. See how nicely it rolls off the tongue? First Friday of our freshman year.
Except it’s not true.
In a letter dated September 12, my lovely wife (then my lovely wife-to-be, though neither of us knew that then) told her friend that we met when my college roommate and I visited her apartment on the first Saturday of our freshman year.
You can see why I’m upset. Our whole history is based on our romantic beginning on the first Friday of our freshman year. And now, after 35 years, I learn it was a lie.
Well, a mistake.
Oh, and I’ve always gotten the date right: September 4, 1976. And, yep. That’s a Saturday.
So this coming Sunday, when we celebrate the 35th anniversary of our meeting, at least we’ll know we got the date right. And I’ll have to look for a new alliterative way to tell our story.
How about the first Saturday of September?