I do?

Today was a day of elevators.
Today was Freshman Move-In Day at my school, and I was on the move-in crew.  Naturally I saw my share of awkward cram-into-the-elevator-get-to-know-each-other-very-well-in-the-next-few-seconds-haha moments; I won't bore you with those stories.  Especially since I just summed all 549 of them up just now.  What I will tell you is this.
Today I recieved my first serious marriage proposal.  From a complete stranger.
I wheeled my shopping cart into the parking lot, having been told by another crew member that there was a car that needed to be unloaded. 
"Hi!" I greeted the man and two women who were standing next to the open trunk.  "Do you need any help?"  They loaded luggage and bedding into the cart while one of the women explained to me: "We don't know the room number, he's checking in now."  I said that was fine, and we could wait at the car.  We had exchanged maybe a few more sentences before the younger woman said, "Christine, are you married?"
"No, I'm not," I said, figuring she was probably joking.
"Oh," she said, smiling, "I've got someone for you.  Not me!  My brother."
I started laughing.  I thought she was still joking.
"Don't laugh, I'm serious!" she said.  I kept laughing anyway, I didn't know what else to do.  She said, "You are a good person.  He needs someone helpful and compassionate, like you.  Don't laugh, I'm serious!"  She repeated that sentence several times until I calmed down enough to say, "I'm sorry, it's just that this is my first offer of marriage today."  All three of them laughed then. 
"Would you want to marry an African?" she said. 
This, as I'm sure you've figured out, is a question not easily answered.  If I answered yes, I ran the risk of letting the woman pick a date, a church and caterer.  If I answered no, I'd look racist.  I laughed, of course, while I thought.
"Honestly, I haven't thought too much about it," I said.  Not exactly true, but not exactly offensive either.
I thought that was the end of it until she said, "No, but really, give him your number." 
The other woman and man--who I figured out were the parents--started asking me about the school--about classes, meals, where I lived, whether or not I liked it.  We had rather an extensive conversation, because the kid still wasn't coming back.  How long could it possibly take him to check in? I thought.  And where are all the other movers?  How could they leave me alone with this oddly determined woman and these other two who weren't exactly keen on reining her in.  Once, she asked me if I cook my own food, with he look of a lawyer cross-examining a witness.  I told her that I rarely do, that I usually eat in the caf.  She nodded as though that meant something.  Probably trying to figure out how domestic I am.  I was sure I'd failed her test, and felt a little bad about that, but not much.  Then the older woman said, "There he is."
A boy came toward us.  The younger woman called out to him, and when he reached us, said something to him in another language, pointing at me, and then "Be sure to get her number."  Then, and only then, did I realize that this was her brother.  We exchanged tight smiles, and I tried to telepathically send him the message, I am so so so sorry.  Instead, I just asked him, "What room?"  Nothing else was said about his older sister's matchmaking venture until the two of us headed toward the elevator.
"No, but really, give him your number!"