Meeting Chicagomag
Luke wasn't going to even look at Meleah’s profile at first. After all, the dating service predicted only an 83 percent match, and Luke had a strict policy of meeting only women with a 90 percent match or above.
But he was intrigued by her profile name — “Chicagomag“ — because he was at the time employed at the Chicago Tribune. He wondered whether the woman on the other side would be a reporter for Chicago magazine, which shared his building, so he broke his rule and looked.
Chicagomag was not a reporter. She was in fact Meleah Anne Geertsma — Chicago M.A.G. — and she was beautiful. And smart. And into bikes.
He quietly rated her four stars.
The next day, she wrote him, having noticed that he had a great smile, a keen eye, and intelligent thoughts and pursuits. And was into bikes.
Over the weekend Luke and Meleah exchanged more e-mail, and on Monday, Memorial Day 2010, we met for a drink at Handlebar, a bicycle-themed restaurant in the Meleah’s Wicker Park neighborhood.
In person, Meleah was beautiful. And smart. And into bikes. But also generous. And warm. And quick to smile.
Meleah, meanwhile, was struck by the crinkle lines around Luke’s eyes when he smiled (which he also was quick to do) and how quiet he was — although perhaps too quiet. She took note of his powers of observation, which she assumed arose from his journalism background. (Or maybe it was the other way around?) She also sensed a strong inner integrity that came out in his quiet way.
We went on another date that Thursday, after which Luke had designs on leaning in for a kiss as we stood at Meleah’s door, but our stupid bikes stood in the way. The kiss would have to wait for the third date.
The third date was scheduled for the next week.
It didn’t happen.
Instead, Meleah told of news that had just come. The good news was that she had gotten her dream job. The bad news was that her dream job would be in Washington, D.C. She would be moving in a month. The third date would have to wait.
The long con
Not long after Meleah left Chicago, Luke’s best friend asked if he had a plan. “All I can do is try to be a good friend,” Luke told him. “If she finds happiness with someone else, then I will be thrilled. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll get another chance someday.”
“I see,” his friend said. “So you’re playing the long con.”
Indeed, we stayed in touch. Meleah visited Chicago frequently, and Luke took advantage of any excuse to meet up. During one such visit, Meleah mentioned her fondness for the movie “Stranger Than Fiction.” In her favorite scene, a man woos a Harvard Law School dropout and bakery owner with a gift of flours. “I’m just waiting for a guy to bring me flours like that,” Meleah told him. “That’s all it would take.”
Almost two years later, Luke and Meleah’s careers were in flux. Washington, D.C., lacked many of the qualities of urban living that Meleah had loved about Chicago. She was hoping to negotiate a transfer to her organization’s Chicago office, where she could build a more sustainable life and career. Luke, meanwhile, was hoping for a new position of his own. After 12 years at the Tribune, he was interviewing to become a Web designer at Chicago magazine — good ol’ Chicagomag.
Nearly simultaneously, it worked out for both of us. Luke got the job he wanted, and Meleah finalized a return to Chicago. Along the way were many chats and e-mail exchanges as we coached each other through our major life changes.
In May 2012, Meleah bought a condo in the Ravenswood neighborhood on Chicago’s North Side, not far from where two of her best friends had also recently relocated — and not far from Luke’s home. We again found excuses to hang out. Dinner here. A swim on the lake there. And on Memorial Day, a tandem-bicycle ride down the lakefront. “Normally I don’t like to give up control,” Meleah says when she recalls that ride. “But with Luke in front I felt I was finally with someone solid, someone I could trust to steer me safely. So I relaxed and sat back.”
Three days later, Meleah moved into her new home. This was another perfect excuse to hang out, and Luke volunteered to come help sweep. Along with an array of brooms and buckets, he brought a housewarming gift, a heavy box that Meleah opened in her empty living room over plastic cups of lambic beer, thinking at first from the box’s weight and squishiness that Luke had gotten her an air mattress.
But it was a box of flours — a half-dozen different varieties. She looked at it, slightly dumbfounded.
“Did you ever see ...”
Luke nodded his head.
“Did I ever tell you that ...”
Luke nodded his head.
Meleah sat quiet for a beat.
Then she leaned over, and for the first time we kissed.
Warmth, affection and togetherness
And so followed a near perfect summer. Rhubarb pies. Post-work swims in the lake. Banh mi in the park. Lakefront bike commutes. A weekend getaway to Holland, Mich.
After a few months, it came time to assess our seriousness. Sitting on opposite ends of Luke’s couch, we independently mapped out our lives’ big events over the next few years. Then we met in the middle and compared notes. Not only had we both selected all the same milestones for the next five years, but our schedules lined up perfectly, down to the month.
But in September, tragedy struck Luke’s family in California. Discussing travel to be with the family, Luke told Meleah, “I can’t really ask or expect you to come.” Meleah responded, “You don’t have to ask or expect — I’m offering.”
He went home immediately; Meleah followed shortly. Throughout the ordeal, core elements of our characters were revealed. There were no surprises, just confirmations, and we returned to Chicago with new understanding of family and of partnerships.
That November, we went home for Thanksgiving with Meleah’s family out East. For an outing together, Luke campaigned for a hike up Mt. Monadnock in New Hampshire. He feigned that it was because he'd read that Thoreau had frequented its slopes — he even feigned reading “Walden” for a few days — but in reality it was because Meleah had once mentioned what a special place it was for her. “I'd say it was hands-down my first choice for a wedding location,” she had written in July, “if one is ever needed.”
As we approached the top, cresting one false summit after another, Luke complained of being tired and cold. “There had better be something special at the top for us to hike all this way.” Meleah worried: “Oh, jeez, I’m pulling this poor guy up a mountain in the freezing cold and high winds. I hope he isn’t miserable.”
When we finally reached the bare, blustery summit, we found a nook in which to take shelter from the wind. This was Luke's cue. With chattering teeth and shaky knees — from the cold, surely — he lurched toward Meleah and presented her with a box. “Will you marry me?” he asked through frozen lips.
It was too cold to say anything more than “Yes.” It was not too cold to break out into a huge grin.
In the box was Meleah's engagement ring — a napkin ring made of rice-paper mizuhiki, a Japanese art form said to convey “warmth, affection and togetherness.“
The only person as happy and surprised as we were on the summit was the guy in full fatigues who took our picture. “Hey!” he yelled to his hiking partner over the wailing winds. “This guy just proposed to his girlfriend!”
On hearing the tale as the first recipient of the good news, Meleah’s mom opined that if she had had any doubts whether Luke was the right one for her daughter, his choice of ring erased them all. Then she hugged us both and wouldn’t let go.
