October 11, 1995. A day that will live in whatever the opposite of "infamy" is. "Famy"?
I was playing racquetball with my roomate Edith (we had a whole "Three's Company" thing going on with third roomate Christine). Edith had been playing matchmaker for months, unable to mention her friend Carla without the postscript "... who's single!" Meanwhile, I was "Jason... who's single!" whenever she talked to Carla.
Racquetball game ends, and Edith says, "We're meeting Carla for pizza tonight." I don't even have time to shower. All I can do is throw on my cutoff jean shorts, a ratty t-shirt, and my Doc Martens -- I was in my grunge phase, sorry.
We meet the mythical (and single!) Carla at an Iowa City bar, order up our pizza, and proceed to play a cutthroat game of "name that tune" with everything that comes up on the jukebox. There are conflicting reports regarding the outcome of that game, but I hold firm to my recollection that I was Supreme Ruler of All Things Musical and Trivial that night. This mythical Carla was unlike anyone I'd ever met, not to mention dated. Ridiculously funny, incredibly smart, took no crap, and could dish it back out with the best of them.
A week later -- after I've plied Edith for an assurance that I won't be shot down in a blazing fireball -- I get up the courage to ask this amazing woman out. And she says yes! (It was years later that I actually learned how Carla described me to Edith: "Cute, in an Aryan sort of way." Perfect first impression when you're meeting a nice Jewish girl, right?)
Abridged version: Just short of two years later, we were married. And today, 13 years after the fact, I can't believe how much good is in my life thanks to that one impulsive pizza run.
Happy meet-iversary to the person who changed everything, from your big Aryan-looking nerd.