A Curious Engagement

image from here

Twelve years ago today, she said yes.  Then the pope died.  Read on for more.

On April 2, 2005, my girlfriend and I were visiting friends and family at our alma mater, Penn State.  The trip was special- it was always nice to see the place we had called home as recently as two years prior, but this time, I also planned to propose!

The plan was simple:
1. take a morning stroll through downtown
2. stop in the comic book store to pick up a new Star Wars Miniatures release
3. walk by the gazebo on west campus where we had often hung out
4. deliver an eloquent and beautiful message, finishing with ring presentation
5. welcome into my arms an ecstatic and breathless fiancee
6. enjoy an afternoon collectively lost in a romantic fog
7. meet family for dinner to enjoy a chorus of congratulations and ring adoration

Aside: why comic book store, you say?  Being quite excited, I felt a way to mask it was to talk up the new Miniatures release, and make her think my awkward behavior was due entirely to anticipation of that.  <she saw through it, of course>

My plans were dashed early on by rain.  Steps 1 & 2 happened without incident, but when we walked by the gazebo, she refused to go in.  It was raining and the gazebo was surrounded by wet grass . . . I understood.  But I pressed the matter; several attempts to get inside were rebuffed, so we kept walking.  "No big deal," I thought.  "I'll do it somewhere else.  I have plenty of time."

As the day progressed, I sought opportunities to propose.  There were none.  We went to the mall . . . the luggage section of Bon-Ton didn't seem suitable.  We went other places . . . no dice.  I started to get nervous.  We were supposed to be engaged by now, and the ring was burning in my pocket.  Plus, remember step 7?  My family knew I was proposing . . . if they didn't see a ring, they'd assume a negative response, might react poorly, and we'd probably all end up on Jerry Springer.  What was I to do?

I'm not proud of what happened next.  I managed to hide the ring in the glove compartment of my car (Gold 1 . . . long may you ride).  As we pulled into Olive Garden for lunch, I asked her to get something for me from said compartment.  She saw the ring, I stumbled through a proposal, and she said yes.  We strolled into lunch happy.  Then I explained my original plan.  My fiancee quietly reflected at first, but once back in the car . . .

"You should have made me go to the gazebo."  Of course I had tried several times, and noted as such.  Apparently, it wasn't enough.  "I would have gone if you had been persistent."  "I was persistent," I retorted.  The exchange continued in like fashion, with my fiancee claiming I could have convinced her, while I countered that her obstinance would have made that unlikely (to avoid complete discord, I don't think I worded it in quite that way).  We ended with a plan: we drove back to the gazebo and I proposed properly.  All was good . . . or so I thought.

Every woman wants a nice proposal, and I had messed up.  My fiancee, though not angry, was disappointed with my apparent inability to deliver a romantic experience (12 years later, this is still a  problem).  We continued our day as she thought on this.  Thankfully, we then learned that Pope John Paul II had just passed away.  (I was thankful for the distraction, not the event itself.)

That evening, we met my family for dinner, and all appeared well.  Then Sunday came.  The pastor opened his sermon with the following, which I can quote verbatim 12 years later for reasons that will be obvious: "If I had known how many times my proposal story would be told, I would have planned it much better."  Thanks, buddy . . . a day late on that one.

I am a blessed man.  We've been married for almost 12 years, have three wonderful (if belligerent) children, and she's more beautiful and amazing than the day we met (at least one of us is aging well).  But both of us wish we could get that day back- with same outcome, but better delivery.  It's not just what you do, folks . . . it's how you do it.  Delivery matters.