It is 3:37 in the morning two nights after getting engaged to be married and I cannot sleep. Instead of assuming my typical location at this hour – curled up with my warm and handsome now fiancé with our sweet dog’s legs sprawled across my hair – I’m standing over our kitchen sink. I’m tackling the giant pile of dishes from the night before, scouring off the sticky sauce remnants from our broccoli and beef stir-fry, and doing it by hand even though I’m steps away from a functioning dishwasher. All the while I’m listening to that Talking Heads song on repeat – Once in a Lifetime – wiping the dishes methodically in rhythm with the song. I’m sure if Ron woke up he’d panic, thinking I was sleepwalking or maybe on the verge of a nervous breakdown. But I’m neither of those things. Rather, I am listening intently to the words of the song, repeating one part over and over like a mantra: “You may ask yourself… how did I get here?”
I have never been particularly interested in getting married. Unlike the little girls who dreamed of their big, gorgeous weddings and planned their bridesmaids and wedding songs, I shied away from the topic when it came up. My disinterest in marriage probably stemmed from multiple places. First, as a child of divorce, I don’t have any early recollections of my parents talking fondly of their wedding, celebrating anniversaries, renewing vows (of course, these experiences came later in life when each of my parents found their new partners). Aside from the lack of talk of my parents’ wedding, I can’t remember either one of them making reference to my future wedding/partner/whatever when I was growing up. Any talk of the future was about what career I wanted, where I wanted to live, what I wanted to do, separate from the thought of sharing that with another person.
Also, for a long time I didn’t think I would be legally allowed to be married. Prior to meeting Ron, nearly all of my serious relationships were with women. When I did imagine a future, it was usually with a member of the same sex. And thus marriage became an ugly word. Anyone who doesn’t consign to a heteronormative notion of love is not good enough for marriage? No, it’s not good enough for me. Why aspire to be part of an institution that was readily available to drunks in Vegas that had met hours before but made a point of excluding a large subset of the population because of a very old book? Nope, I was just fine without it in my life.
Enter Ron. He was handsome and gentle, smart and kind. Our love did not ignite in a fury when we first met. Instead it slowly crept up on both of us, each kiss lasting a little longer, every date coming with less time in the interim, every conversation shared between us more cherished. I can’t recall the first time it occurred to me that I thought I might marry him. That, in spite of myself, I would consider being part of an institution that bound me to this man for life. I can’t even recall the first time we discussed it out loud. But at a certain point, I realized that I was comfortable with the notion of marrying him. That now, with the Defense of Marriage Act overturned, marriage might actually be able to be a desirable option.
Still, at first I was stubborn when I considered what our marriage – and even our wedding – would look like. I was NOT going to get walked down the aisle; I’m not property to be handed from one man to another. I was NOT going to wear a veil; I will not don a symbol of obedience. Ron will NOT ask my father for permission; that’s a decision that I am solely responsible for. Although I felt ready to marry this man, I was not ready to forfeit my identity to what I believed was a stifling and outdated institution. Initially, even the concept of a traditional proposal was uncomfortable to me. How come he’s the asker? Why can’t we decide together? After some slight cajoling, I conceded to Ron’s point: it’s spontaneous and fun to not know when it’s coming. As long as there were no stadiums or flashmobs I guessed I could get down with a proposal.
The proposal conversation came and went and the marriage topic settled somewhere comfortably in the back of my mind. Months went by with no mention of it, beyond my mother asking every so often (that woman wants grandchildren like you wouldn’t believe). Honestly, in certain moments I worried about the complete lack of discussion; after all, I had assented over half a year earlier. Was Ron changing his mind?
Then came the day of my 27th birthday. It was a hot summer day and Ron had to work, so I scheduled a fun-filled day at the beach with my best pal, Hannah. To put it bluntly, Ron had been acting like a weirdo in the days leading up to it. It crossed my mind that he might be thinking of proposing, but it also crossed my mind that he might want to break up with me. He had been standoffish, requesting that I give him some time to himself. He got off work early on the day of my birthday, much to my excitement, but when I asked him to join us at the beach he responded with, “You know, I should really mow the lawn”. The impending breakup seemed more plausible.
After I had gotten sufficiently sunburned and buzzed, Hannah brought me home. I was nervous to see Ron; I wanted to have a nice evening with him but wasn’t sure if he’d be in the mood for celebration, given his behavior earlier in the day. I entered our house tentatively to the most delicious aromas coming from our kitchen. Ron had made a multiple course birthday dinner: bacon-deviled eggs, a delicious salad with homemade raspberry dressing, steak, roasted brussel sprouts, and garlic-mashed potatoes. The table on our back patio was set complete with a fancy bottle of red wine. We were off to a good start.
The meal was mostly quiet, filled with occasional small talk about our days. But mostly, we ate. My fear that Ron was going to break up with me was disappearing as quickly as my steak was. After dinner, Ron asked me if I wanted my present. YES. His next line surprised me: “well, I actually didn’t get you anything this year”. I told him the dinner was enough; delicious labor of love is always fine with me. Then came the sentence that caught me completely off guard: “The only thing I want to give you this year is the promise of the rest of my life”.
Now, let me back up a little. While I was on board with a proposal, I was actually really worried about what my face was going to do when it happened. I would watch women receive proposals on Youtube with tears and exclamations and feel simultaneously jealous and envious all at once. I would not be able to show that emotion; I made up my mind months ago about spending my life with Ron for goodness sake! I was sure that I would say something like, “yeah, cool” and be a total letdown. But then, I surprised myself.
Seeing Ron there, with a nervous, earnest look on his face, holding a ring – my great-grandmother’s ring – was too much for my stubborn heart to handle. The waterworks came before I even realized it. Yes. Yes yes yes. You and me forever, no beginning and no end, just like that beautiful old ring that you’re holding. We hugged and cried for what seemed like forever until Ron pulled away and said, “I’m sorry but I really need to go buy smokes”. I will love him forever.
So alas, my views on marriage have made a 180, and in eight months and four days, I will vow to spend the rest of my days with Ron. I will even be walked down the aisle by the two men that raised me. Every day since the proposal I become more certain that this is what I want, what we both want. And now, just a few short months after our engagement the words the used to scare me a little, make me feel out of control, are now welcome and exciting: you may ask yourself… how did I get here?
unhusked 