So, I have yet to actually get a formal, knee bended, deep tender look into the eyes proposal of marriage, where once I whisper my frustrated horny love-filled “yes“, he slips on the twenty-thousand carat sparkling platinum Harry Winston non-princess-cut* solitaire that fits oh so very perfectly on to my perfectly manicured finger, as I breathe out my dew like breath in tiny gasps, as my perfectly glossy pink lips form an ‘o’ of surprise, pleasure, and orgasm delight, while my gorgeous lotioned hand droops under the weight of said ring. “Oh” I will purr. “It’s so very heavy,” as I suck face kiss him passionately. “My new husband-to-be,” I will think to myself. “My other half. My God. My Milky Way. My Universe. My Moment. My Dove. My… New…Everything.” And the violins swell, the Vienna Boys Choir hits a high note, and the pink clouds in front of the setting sun high on this warm plateau in this impossibly beautiful mountain top, under a vivid starry sky-to-be, turn even pinker with our combined joy as we begin our holy journey to becoming a whole and sacred Union. A Marriage. A Two Become One. A…what.the.fuck?!
There are many, many things wrong about this scenario.
Firstly, because He is in grad school and can’t, theoretically at least, afford a ring yet,there shall be no proposal, because there shall be no ring. At least until He receives his signing bonus. And then at least, there is a slight hope of a piece of diamond to give a home to on my caring, loving hand. But that, it seems, is a ways off right now. And Harry Winston? Twenty-thousand carats? When hell freezes over.
In the movies, the heroine spends all her time up to the proposal guessing, and waiting, and wringing her hands in despair until the hapless hero gets his act together and finally, finally!, Proposes. And there is excitement and kissing and cries of “He Went to JARED!”. But that’s not the case here! There will be no surprise in this affair. We already know we’re getting married! Being proposed to now is like tube-icing on a pre-baked-from-the-grocery-store-cake. The cake is frosted already, folks! Icing is just extra, useless, calories now!
And what is with the girl being a wringer-of-hands and Scarlet O’ Hara incarnate? I’m no Genteel Lady. I know what I want and He’s got it. Dangling between his legs. That’s what she said. And we both went into this relationship with a long-term view. No starry-eyed-maiden I, I have never been the kind that treats marriage as a sacred anything. Except, perhaps, the sacred duty of making him do the damn laundry, for once.
Numberly, He and I have made a career out of being the goofy, loud-mouthed, hormone-crazed couple. How does one go from Public Grope-Fest central to passionate, romantic, and something out of a early nineteenth-century novel set in Elizabethan England? Simple answer? You don’t! Else you’d both burst out laughing, and sacrilege of all sacrileges, ruin the moment. He, of course, takes it to a whole other level. “Baby, rings in glasses of champagne are so idiotic”. (I know!). “I’m just going to give you the ring in front of two hundred other people at a party or something.” (Gak!)
And I bite my nails! There will be no manicured lotioned hands . Knowing Him, he’ll roll over in bed one morning while I have peeling cuticles and dried saliva on the corners of my mouth, and ask me, whether I want my ring, finally. Honey-dew breaths?! More like, omg, get your mouth out of my face, dude.
Ok, so perhaps he wouldn’t be as bad as all that. In fact, He imagines himself as quite the romantic. I know there will be soft voices and tender looks, bended knees, and kisses for the books. But that.will.be.so.very.cliched. And me? I don’t do cliched! While I would pretend to be as awe-struck by the import of the moment, underneath it all, a very small part of me would be like, oh God, this is way too cliched. Yuck. What will I blog about now?!
In summary, being proposed to, I suppose, is one of the most overhyped, overrated, overcommercialized things out there. But underneath it all, the material-girl I-am-a-princess-fairy-queen/the-Wedding-Industry-Got-To-Me part of me does want a proposal, a ring, and a happy ending, (who doesn’t?), and He has been known to blow my mind occasionally, so perhaps my misgivings are, well, misguided. And the proposal will be Us. And we will live hornily-ever-after. Perhaps. But I’m warning you. If it turns into that set of mush up above, well, God help me, you’ll never hear about it here!
But, but, but, you sputter. You’re missing the point here! How are you getting married without a proposal? How do you even know that He wants to get married??! You even started this blog with a name like Married Girl, and yet, you aren’t getting married? Or at least don’t have a formal declaration of ma-r-iage! Are you crazy?
Rock n’ Rolla Part II (Coming Soon): How it is that I’m getting married, without aforementioned proposal.
* Don’t even get me started on the American jewelery industry and the perfect princess cut ring. That may have to be an encore piece all by itself to this mini-series.
PS: Tiffany’s is for poor people. Yuck!