A (Modest) Proposition
Well,” she asked, “are you going to get on your knee?”
“Uh, yeah sure, why not?” I obliged. Surprisingly, she obliged too.
Thus began the 53 short hours of engagement bliss before my family descended like wedding-planning locusts, fielding questions about when, where, how, and with whom the wedding should take place, something I had somehow forgotten comes after proposing.
“Can we invite your cousin’s colleague’s dog-sitter? She watched Snuffles that one Saturday when Dad went for his checkup. Oh, it’s your wedding, so you decide, but you really should invite her, you know.” To be fair, she’s a pillar of the Central African dog-sitting community, which is no small feat, and her inclusion in our wedding would bestow upon it the kind of high-profile status we desperately need.
Somehow, I had forgotten that a proposal leads to an engagement, which, naturally—follow me on this complex logic—leads to an actual marriage. In my mind, getting engaged is just an expensive way to tell someone that you are fairly confident you like them. I suspect that Sarah, my fiancée, is mostly happy that she got a new ring. In contrast, marriage exists as some far-off possibility, sharing space in the same hazy future that includes kids running out of a suburban home with a white-picketed fence and me watching them, grey-haired from my debts to questionable people, while sipping coffee out of a mug that says “World’s Best Husband/Dad/Debtor”.
Planning a wedding, as it turns out, is quite stressful, not to mention expensive. In the course of three weeks, I have suggested eloping at least ten times—that’s averaging one escape plan every two days.
We even came across a wedding photographer who specialises in elopements. He charged the small amount of two months’ salary to capture us spontaneously fleeing from our wedding obligations and my cousin’s colleague’s dog-sitter’s disturbingly well-groomed Scottish terrier called Zelda. Of course, the irony that something as supposedly spontaneous as an elopement could be meticulously orchestrated does not escape me.
I am confident that it will all work out, just like my proposal. I’d love to say that I had been planning to propose for months – nay, years – carefully orchestrating sonnets and floating down on a parachute. But I usually leave matters of the heart to its impulsive beating, much like my dental appointments and general planning.
One night, I had the sudden urge to propose, and so I bought a ring online (yes, romance in the age of the internet is delightful. Nothing says “forever” like a late-night purchase after three hours of comparison shopping and reading reviews from strangers named BlingLover427). I was giddy; Sarah noticed it. She probably also noticed me measuring out her rings. She has awfully small fingers, which initially excited me because I imagined it would make the ring cheaper (smaller ring = less gold = cheaper, right?). It didn’t. Turns out the jewellery industry doesn’t offer discounts for small-fingered people. Must be some kind of monopoly, a conspiracy peddled by the fat-fingered CEOs of jewellery companies. Nevertheless, I obliged, and bought the piece of stone and gold, and wouldn’t you know it, the ring is still too big for her, a bittersweet inconvenience – I really did show those profit-hungry CEOs who’s winning here: the guy with the loose-fitting engagement ring and the maxed-out account.
The ring came a long way, delivered to a friend who was travelling overseas.It was prettier than I remembered, sparkling with the light of a thousand “monthly payments.”
That night, I proposed in front of candles in our dark house (after all, it’s easier to be romantic during an electricity crisis; nothing says “I love you” like being able to see your partner’s face exclusively by candlelight). It was April Fool’s Day, a fact that only revealed itself after Sarah told me she hoped it wasn’t a joke, otherwise she’d leave me. I said we’ll have to find out. She hasn’t left me yet.
I appreciate her commitment to my humour…and Zelda.
