I swear this actually happened

Not made of diamonds.

This is not a story about babies.  But it is about booze and a puppy, so I figure that’s close enough. This is the story of how I ruined my proposal.

When C and I have been together for about three years, I start to get kind of antsy.  I’m not in a hurry to get married, necessarily, but I’m in a hurry to be sure that’s the endgame.  C says he knows for sure that we’re getting married.  That I’m The One (I really am, dude.  We are SO stupid together.  He once told me I say the things that he says in his head but is embarrassed to say out loud).  And I believe him most of the time, but there doesn’t seem to be any movement.  I’m starting to drop not-at-all-subtle hints and LOUDLY exclaim to him about other people’s engagements.  I have become a  character on some nighttime TV show that I hate-watch in secret, all because of a stupid piece of jewelry.

I couldn’t care less about a ring. I mean, I want one, but I never felt like I needed a big diamond, never felt (as I think men often feel) that the size of the diamond is somehow reflective of the size of their love and/or manhood.  We have two lovely family rings, just sitting there waiting for C to please-oh-please-get-the-pretty-one-before-my-brother-does.  C keeps saying he doesn’t want to get married until he can afford a nice ring, which I keep telling him is dumb, since I don’t give a shit.

One day, C wakes up and tells me he wants to get another dog.  I like dogs.  Our dog is a pain in the ass, but I love him.  However, our dog cost ELEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS.  I don’t even want to talk about it.  You see my dilemma, right?  Can’t propose because don’t have money for ring/also would like SECOND DOG THAT COSTS AS MUCH AS DIAMOND BUT IS INEXPLICABLY NOT MADE OF DIAMONDS.  I’m pretty sure I opened and closed my mouth a few times and walked out of the room.

All day we’re messaging back and forth, and he’s all SAMOYED PUPPY and I’m all I HATE YOU.  The man cannot stop talking about the dog, and I cannot stop stabbing myself in the thigh with a plastic fork.  That night we have dinner plans with a childhood friend of mine who is visiting from Florida.  As is often the case when reuniting with one’s childhood friends, we drink a lot of wine.  A lot.  On the way home, I’m a leeeetle saucy and weepy, and I say something along the lines of “look, I get it if you’re scared to get married.  It’s scary. But don’t say it’s about something it’s not.” He replies that he is not scared.  I dissolve into “butyousaidit’sbecauseofmoneyandnowyouwantanothermilliondollardaaaawwwg!”  He is trying to talk me down, trying to explain himself, but I’ve started down a slippery slope and things are getting ugly.   There’s mascara running down my face, and I’m making all kinds of gaspy snotty sounds.

It is at this moment, driving over the Memorial Bridge in the moonlight, that he reaches behind me into the seat pocket, pulls out a box he has had in his possession for a month, and chucks it into my lap.  Awesome.


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