"I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she told me over the phone. “What if you meet Prince Charming? You’d begin your whole relationship with a lie.”

“Oh Mom, come on,” I laughed. “The man of my dreams isn’t going to be a grad student. I promise, I have nothing to worry about.”

The thing about my mother, though — and she’ll tell you this herself — is that she’s always right.

But let me start from the beginning.

In an attempt to play muse to our regular columnist, Navin, I signed him up for speed dating. I filled out an application, submitted his email address, and then — increase your chance of acceptance, said the site, bring a friend! — I signed myself up, too.

“How do you spend your free time,” asked the application.

“Making lists of why I hate my life?” suggested Nav.

“Making...others...laugh,” I typed.

A week later, Nav told me he couldn’t go; his brother was in town. That’s how I became karma’s plaything, and how I found myself, biking through the rain, toward a part of campus where I’d vowed never to set foot.

Yes, I — the sketchy undergrad — attended Rains Speed Dating, and I lived to tell about it. And I think maybe, just maybe, I enjoyed it.

Dressing the part had been a challenge.

“You have to look hot, but not too hot,” my roommate told me. “Remember, you’re going as a grad student.”

“Dress like you’re going on a first date,” advised Nav.

“I’ve never been on a first date,” I said. “All-girls’ school, remember?”

“Well then, like you’re going clubbing,” he added impatiently.

“Never done that either,” I said. “Twenty-one to-”

“Twenty-one to drink,” Nav finished. “God, I hate this bloody country.”

I’d rehearsed my story on the way over. First year, master’s student, Classics. Grew up in rural Maryland; undergrad at Georgetown. My life as a grad student, based loosely on real events.

The event’s organizers pointed me toward an armchair in the corner, and — with the jingle of a bell — the dating began. In their allotted three minutes, some of my dates spoke passionately about their studies; others described their favorite restaurants, or a club in the city. There was the Musicology student, a playful flirt who teased me mercilessly, and the French Canadian, who had the whole room wrapped around his finger. I even met a Texan who shared my love for Santorini, sushi, and jazz.

“To tell you the truth,” confessed Date 15, taking his seat across from me, “You’re the first one I noticed. The redhead in the red dress? Kind of intimidating.”

...the first thing I’d noticed about him? He was tall; most male grad students are.

And, hey — contrary to what you may’ve heard — they’re not bad looking, either. I counted several cuties in the crowd; one, an Ed school student, was downright gorgeous.

Grad students are a little awkward, but they’re also smart, funny, and endearingly sweet. Now, every time I catch a glimpse of a bike helmet, my heart leaps a little. I’ll be honest — I might be grad-crazy.

The next day, an email arrived with my speed dating matches. I’d wanted to put down a “yes” for everyone, but I tried to eliminate the oldest ones. To my surprise, almost two-thirds had chosen me back, including some of the studliest in the group. But when I realized that two of my favorites — an adorable EE co-term, and the Mechanical Engineer with an unforgettable smile — hadn’t put me on their lists, my heart sank.

Just then, my phone rang. It was my mother.

“Oh honey,” she said, when she’d heard what happened. “Rejection always hurts.”

“But,” I started, “They were-”

“Rejection always hurts,” she repeated, “Even when it comes from a grad student.”