We're getting married!!

Some of you may have heard this story before, but you might have only heard one side. Here’s how we met from both of our perspectives—

It was spring term, freshman year. No ties, sun was out, and there was no better time to party. Turns out, the biggest party of them all was just around the corner. Being the completely grown-up adult that I was, I made the executive decision to take part in the school-wide annual bonding trip: Shasta. No, I didn’t ask my parents for permission; nothing could throw a wrench in my plans—not even Mother’s Day (sorry, Momma). Now it was time to get all my ducks in a row. Fifteen of my closest friends of six entire months and I had to do something none of us had done before: make a plan. We sought out a captain of legal age to assume all liability for the party barge and found the most run-down, cheapest floating hut with a motor we could. Once that was locked in, we immediately forgot the most important—and most overlooked—thing: women. Who on earth would want to share a sweatbox that smelled like beer and piss with us degenerates??? Whether by a stroke of luck or their misfortune, somehow the Thetas were down. Perfect—a group of stunning women I had never met! Nothing could take away from the magic that was about to be our first Shasta. Instead of meeting the ladies ten beers deep, we did what any sensible Greek life crew would do: created a Facebook group named Shasta 2016. From there, we planned a meet-up at Weatherford Hall prior to the trip. Naturally, I had to do a little digital investigating. Clicking through profile pics like a madman, I stumbled on the wrench in my plans: Madison Caster. At the meet-up, nothing major happened. We tried calculating how much beer and liquor we’d need, gave food a passing thought, and started getting to know each other. I was absolutely trying my hardest to flirt—and I think I nailed it. Walking out, I looked over at my buddy Rawls and said, “I am so gonna get with that Madi Caster chick.” We get down to Shasta, and all my nearly non-existent game went straight out the window. I said little to no words to her that first day, and my opening move that night? Sitting... on her lap. From there, we got to talking. Who would’ve guessed it—this girl was sassy. The rest of the weekend was a breeze. I was grilling us some dogs (one for her, five for me), we were playing drinking games; life couldn’t be any better. Fast forward to the final day, I did what any guy would do in my position: I asked for her number. But noooo—that would’ve been too easy. She made me memorize the entire thing after telling me once. No writing it on my hand. No sneakily typing it into my phone (which had been dead for two days). Just pure memory. So there I was, mentally reciting her number for the next 24 hours. Halfway through the drive home, I hit her with the best opener—because, as I mentioned, I was extremely smooth: I texted her own number to her. And now, all these years later: me, still smooth; her, still sassy and beautiful.

It was the spring of 2016. I told my parents I wanted to spend Mother’s Day weekend at Shasta Lake, but I needed to find a group to go with. I turned to my older sister, Alli, and asked, “What fraternity do you think I’ll like the best?” Without hesitation, she said, “SigEp. I’ll get you connected!” And just like that, a group of us Thetas got added to a Facebook group with the SigEp freshmen. Naturally, everyone started stalking who was in the group—and gaging who was the hottest. I immediately spotted Max Oppenheimer and knew he was trouble. The boys wanted to meet up and introduce themselves before driving down to Shasta—very respectable (and very SigEp) of them. And finally, the introduction to the man I knew who was going to fall in love with me. Max walked up to me and shook my hand. During the meeting, he wouldn’t leave my side, spitting his game, and trust me, it worked. As we walked out, I whispered to my good friend Annie, “keep me away from Max Oppenheimer. I know he’s going to be trouble.” We got to Shasta, and on the first day, Max and I kept glancing at each other. I was getting that elementary school crush feeling—you know the one: butterflies in your stomach, every glance feeling electric, heart racing like it’s keeping a secret. Top 3 best feelings a human can have. I needed some liquid courage, so I chugged as many Keystones as I possibly could. I go on the roof of the boat and sat down with my girlfriends, when all of a sudden, we hear a loud voice coming up the stairs—laughing and yelling to his friends on the island. Who was it, you may ask? None other than Max. He greeted us girls and plopped right onto my lap while I was sitting in a plastic chair that had definitely seen better days. As he talked, all I could think was, “this chair is about to break.” The weekend went on, and Max and I left our friends to talk for hours (sorry, Annie!) about our upbringings, goals, and aspirations. That’s when we discovered I shared the same first and middle name as one of his sisters (love you, Maddy!). We spent three full days together, but it felt like we’d known each other for years. We bonded over cheap beer and the only food anyone brought—hot dogs and hamburgers. Every morning, I’d wake up to the smell of a reheated burger patty on a sesame bun, loaded with all my favorite condiments, delivered straight to my bed. Thanks to Max, I was fed all weekend and spoiled with my very own breakfast in bed—hamburger. The weekend came to an end, and Max asked for my phone number. I told him, “if you want to see me again, you’ll have to memorize it.” We said our goodbyes, expecting maybe to see each other on campus—nothing more. On the drive home, I got a text (see below) from an unknown number, and the rest… was history.