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I was
freaking out. I had a ring. Man, this was it!
I had
decided around new year's day 2006 that I was going to ask Irene to
marry me. This after a lot of thought and a check with the Bachelors
Union to see if I could change my "confirmed" status.
I kid.
Actually, the notion came to me quite naturally. With each passing
day in a year of dating seriously I had come to realize that Irene
was the woman with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. On
any given day, I love her twice as much as yesterday and half as
much as tomorrow.
So I was looking
forward to popping the question. But when?
The perfect
opportunity was just around the corner. We would
soon be leaving on a Caribbean cruise that Irene had booked for my
40th birthday a few months earlier.
If you buy
into the hype, then it is an absolute must to have a dramatic "how
he proposed" story that when retold results in a chorus of "awwws"
from females and nausea in males.
You know the
stories... "He hid the ring in my dessert and I cracked a molar when
I bit into it - it was so sweet. I had tears in my eyes." All
together now... Awww... ugh.
Here was my
chance... I would take a knee on the balcony of our stateroom, the
stars twinkling above the Caribbean, champagne chilled, and "wham,"
in one dashing moment weaken Irene's knees and give her a story to
tell for the rest of her life.
Even better,
our one-year anniversary and Irene's birthday both happened to fall
on this same day - the first day of our cruise. The proposal would be the cherry on
top!
We stopped
to pick up some champagne on the way to the dock in Fort Lauderdale, the first component of my proposal plan, but I had one
big problem... You see, I give Irene a dozen roses on the 21st of each month,
the anniversary of our first date, which also happened to be her
birthday.
Here I was
on our anniversary - Irene's birthday - about to set sail on a cruise that she
had gifted me for mine and I didn't have any roses... and how was I
going to acquire them, let alone surprise her with them, when she
was right next to me in the cab on the way to the ship?!
If you know
her at all, Irene isn't really a material girl. Oh sure, some of it
runs through her veins (see shoes and handbags), as it does in us
all, but with her it's the sentiment that really counts. Forget the gifts.
Forget the champagne. If there was one thing that I should have
done, it was arrange for the flowers. Nothing else really mattered.
My 11-month streak of giving Irene flowers on the 21st of each month
was about to come to an end - on her birthday and our one-year
anniversary.
Irene was
disappointed, which is a nice way of saying she was p*ssed. I cursed
myself for setting this precedent in the first place. Hero to goat -
"baaaaaa."
Would you
marry me? I think not. At least not on that night. I was dazed like
I had just taken an uppercut from Mike Tyson. I could hear buzzers
and alarms going off, I could see flashing red lights, and I was
receiving an emergency action message that read, "Abort proposal!
Abort proposal!" on the way to the canvas.
I wasn't
going out on that stateroom balcony if you paid me, for fear of having to swim back
to Fort Lauderdale.
By the way,
did you know that they sell flowers on cruise ships? I didn't. I'd
find out later that they did when I passed a quaint little shop on
board with a big sign above it reading "Flower Shop." Way to go,
Tim.
"Wouldn't
the proposal have made up for the lack of flowers," you ask? Nope,
the damage was done. I'd have to retreat and live to fight another day.
That day
didn't come around again for two weeks. In between, Irene caught the
cruise ship bug called the "norovirus" that put her down for two
days of our 10-day cruise. No big loss since it also rained for six
of them. Panama, Costa Rica and Belize were cool but the whole thing
started to feel like an upscale field trip ("Back on the bus by 4 pm
or we'll leave you behind children") and if I do say so myself,
Carnival sucks.
Nope. The
ring would stay in the suitcase.
We had a
blast in South Beach but the time still didn't feel right. Orlando
was great, except for checking into the Marriott only to find that -
get this - there wasn't a bed in our room. Can you say "free
upgrade?"
After nearly
three weeks away I was ready to go home, which was a story in itself
as well. I felt defeated after not being able to find a suitable
time to propose but heartened by the fact that we had made it
through this vacation without killing each other and that we were
still very much in love.
Waking in
our own bed was like being in Heaven. It's our favorite time of the
day to begin with, so much so that each morning I tell Irene that I
love her 24 times, once for each hour until we wake again.
Then it
dawned on me (pardon the pun), "This is it! Do it man, do it!"
First
problem - the ring was in the suitcase that I had left in the trunk
of the car the night before. Second problem - it was like 40 degrees
outside. Third problem - I wasn't dressed for either of the previous
two problems.
Before
addressing any of these concerns, I needed some affirmation so I
simply leaned over and whispered the question, "Do you love me?" in
Irene's ear. She responded by saying, "Of course I do."
"I'll be
right back," I said.
I didn't
bother dressing. I raced out the door, down the stairs and past a
neighbor who didn't believe that boxers, a t-shirt and bare feet
were appropriate attire for the weather. I reached the car, got the
ring and returned. It must have been pretty quick because Irene
thought I had gone to the bathroom.
I got back
into bed, snuggled up to Irene (who almost jumped out of bed due to
my cold hands and feet), told her that I loved her and popped
the question. She said yes immediately.
Somehow this
all felt right.
Now, I don't
know if this is a story that will induce "awwws" from women or
nausea in men, but I will always remember it as the happiest day of
my life, until February 17, 2007, that is.
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