Maybe I’ll See You Around

You’ve heard the short version of how I met your mom, but I don’t think I’ve ever really told you the whole thing—the awkward parts, the lucky parts, and the little moments that somehow turned into the rest of our lives.

It was the summer of 1972. I was twenty-four, sharing an apartment with two other guys and working weekdays at a hardware store. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous chapter. The apartment was almost always a mess, the refrigerator usually held nothing but mustard and somebody’s leftover Chinese food, and my car only started when it felt like cooperating.

But I was having fun. Most Friday nights, my friends and I went downtown to a little place called Murphy’s. It wasn’t fancy—dark wood paneling, a jukebox in the corner, and tables that wobbled unless you folded a napkin under one leg. Sometimes they had live music, but mostly people went there to talk, have a drink, and see who else showed up.

One Friday, my friend Danny told me his girlfriend was bringing a few women from work. I almost didn’t go. I had worked late, I was tired, and staying home to watch television sounded just fine to me.

Danny would not let it go. Back then, of course, that meant calling the phone attached to the wall in our kitchen. He called twice and finally said, “Just come out for one drink. You’re twenty-four years old. Stop acting like you’re eighty.” So I went.

When I got to Murphy’s, Danny was sitting at a table near the jukebox with his girlfriend and three other women. Your mom was at the end of the table, and I noticed her right away.

She was wearing a yellow blouse and had her hair pulled back. She wasn’t the loudest person there, but when she laughed, everybody looked her way. She had one of those laughs that made you want to know what was so funny.

Danny introduced everyone, and when he got to your mom, I didn’t hear her name correctly. The music was loud, and I thought he said “Mary,” so that is what I called her for the first ten minutes.

Finally, she leaned over and said, “You know my name isn’t Mary, right?”

I said, “Of course I know that.”

She said, “Then why do you keep calling me Mary?”

I had no good answer. I tried to act like it was a joke, but she knew perfectly well that it wasn’t. She gave me a hard time about that for years.

After that, we started talking. At first it was the usual things—where we worked, where we grew up, people we knew. She worked at a bank downtown and had recently moved into an apartment with her cousin. I was trying very hard to sound interesting, which probably meant I was talking too much.

At some point, I told her I knew a lot about music. That was not really true. I knew some things about music, but mostly I knew which records my roommates owned. She walked over to the jukebox and told me to pick a song. I stood there pretending to study all the choices, even though I had no idea what I was doing.

Finally, I picked a song I thought would impress her. She listened for about ten seconds and said, “I hate this song.” That was your mom. She was never going to pretend she liked something just to make me feel good.

I said, “Well, you pick one, then.” She chose “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” and I remember that because she started singing along—not loudly, but enough that I could hear her. She knew every word.

We talked for most of the night. By the time everyone started leaving, I knew I wanted to see her again. The problem was that I was too nervous to ask.

I walked her outside, and we stood on the sidewalk for a minute while her friends got into a car. I knew I only had a few seconds, so naturally I said the most useless thing possible: “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

That was it. Maybe I’ll see you around. She looked at me like she was waiting for me to say something else. Then she said, “Maybe,” and got into the car.

As soon as they drove away, Danny came outside and said, “You didn’t get her number?” I told him I had a plan. I did not have a plan.

The next day, I called Danny’s girlfriend and asked for your mom’s phone number. She said she wasn’t sure she should give it to me. When I asked why not, she said, “Because you called her Mary all night.”

Eventually, she gave it to me. I waited until Sunday afternoon to call because, for some reason, I thought calling the next day would make me seem too eager. People used to spend a lot of time thinking about things like that.

When your mom answered, I said, “Hi, is this Mary?” There was a long pause. Then she laughed. That helped. I asked if she wanted to get dinner with me the following Friday. She said yes, though she later told me she almost said no just to teach me a lesson.

For our first date, I took her to an Italian restaurant I thought was very sophisticated. It had candles on the tables and waiters in black bow ties. I had saved some money so I could take her someplace nice.

When the check came, I realized I had left my wallet in my other pants. I had a few dollars in my pocket, but not nearly enough. I was completely embarrassed and told her I would drive home, get the wallet, and come back. She opened her purse, paid for dinner, and said, “You can get the next one.” I definitely got the next one.

After dinner, we walked for a while. It was warm out, and the shops downtown were already closed. We talked about our families, the places we wanted to travel, and what we thought our lives might look like someday.

I don’t remember every word we said, but I remember how easy it felt. That was the thing about your mom from the beginning: I felt like I could tell her anything. She made me laugh, but she also made me feel calm. I never had to work too hard to be around her.

I don’t think I knew that night that we would get married or have a family. People like to say they knew immediately, but I’m not sure that’s true for most of us. What I did know was that I wanted to see her again.

Then I wanted to see her again after that. And after that. Eventually, it became hard to remember what my life had felt like before she was part of it.

So that’s how I met your mom: at a noisy little bar I almost didn’t go to, after calling her the wrong name and choosing a song she hated. Not exactly a perfect beginning. But it was ours.