A Modest Proposal ii

The next day I picked up G in his little green car.  He suggested we go up in the canyon for a picnic, his glance darting to the turquoise duffle bag. I had spent the whole night thinking and then early in the morning confided in my good friend next door. My immediate instinct was to postpone the proposal however I could until I got a better grasp of what I wanted.

So we traveled through the canyon, making small talk. I was overly aware of the bag. That stupid bag, that blessed bag.  At Sundance, we parked, grabbed our things (hello, duffle bag companion!), and hiked up the mountain.  We spread out a blanket and chatted about the day, the gorgeous surroundings, school.  In a sudden rush of panic my proposal avoidance system activated.

"Want to take a walk?"  I blurted.

"Sure." G swooped the bag--which had been nestled close to G on the blanket--up to his shoulder.  

We made our way toward a small stream at the foot of Mt. Timpanogos, a wonderfully romantic technicolor scene on this September afternoon.  The mountains seemed to be holding their breath.  G invited me to sit on the grass as he ceremoniously unzipped the duffle bag. [Now I was holding my breath, too.]  This is it, I thought.

He took out two crystal goblets, both wrapped carefully in a frayed blue bath towel, and my favorite sparkling soda.

"What's this, a picnic?" I asked, coyly. And inanely.  As if we hadn't already been calling it a picnic and I hadn't noticed the bag fastened to him all day.

"Uh-huh" G smiled faintly.

We gulped down our drinks, both nervous for our own reasons.  Stalling for time, I asked for a refill and drank it, too.  Do I want this to happen? what's the way forward? Distraction seems much more compassionate than rejection.  And I don't want to reject him. I'm just not sure.  I don't want him to ask unless I'm sure.

"Um...G?"  

"Yeah?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."  I really did.  I was suffering the consequences of the refill. We packed up the bottles and glasses and G replaced them in the bag, careful not to reveal its other contents.  But I thought I could see a bit of light blue velvet.

. . .

Confused? Read the first installment here. There's more to come. Eventually.

Picture taken on my parents' deck, September 1989, on the way to USU's Homecoming.  Oh the hair (both of us!). G's about to laugh and I've got a strange overbite happening. Look at our little young, starry-eyed selves. 

A modest proposal

 Just a little story in honor of my 20th anniversary this week. (I'm a little nervous about this whole heart-on-sleeve storytelling but here goes...) 

It was the first time I ever cried in a supermarket, unless you count the time I threw a tantrum for a lollipop when I was three.  But there I was, amidst the harsh flourescent lighting, overly friendly produce men in red polyester jackets, and tear-soaked lettuce.  I missed him, two hours away.  I missed him to distraction. 

I had been dating G for fifteen months--six of those months I was in London and three more I was away at school--so we had endured separations before.  In fact we joked about our feast-or-famine dating. No big deal. But the cold aching gnaw below my heart was telling me differently. I felt bereft and that wasn't good for my plans.  Not good at all.

Love...marriage...all of this was scheduled much later in my life plan, certainly after college graduation. We had talked about how we would wait for any serious plans, despite the increasing undercurrent of certainty about the fact that we would share a future, eventually. Some day. When we were older and had more of our career paths set. When the grad school we both planned was finished.  That was beginning to feel really very distant, the feasts too infrequent, the famines too...famine-y.

When G arrived the next Saturday night for our weekly visit we booked a table to eat at our favorite spot.  But this night the feasting failed.  Halfway through dinner, G seemed distracted, blankly nodding with a glazed look.  Finally he admitted to feeling a little sick. "Maybe the flu" he said so I took him back to my apartment for a place to recover.  An hour later he was still ill so I ran out for some medicine.  The night crawled on until I convinced him off of the sick-couch and took him home to his friend's apartment where he was crashing for the night.

I dropped him off and as he left the car he promised to see me tomorrow. "Don't forget to lock the car, okay?"  These words rang in my ears as I drove back to my place.  Don't forget to lock the avocado green 1971 Toyota Corolla station wagon? Does it even lock?  I had never seen him lock it before.

Once back in my parking lot, one glance in the back seat told me that Greg forgot his duffel bag. Poor guy, first he gets the stomach flu and now he doesn't even have his things for the night.  I grabbed the bag and hefted it up to my lap.  Expecting to find a razor or a towel or books or clothes, I unzipped the turquoise duffel bag and flailed my hand through the dark opening.

The contents clinked together and my hand brushed the velvet covering of a small box.  Curious, I clutched the box and brought it out into the field of the lone streetlight.  In my hand was a light blue jewelry box, much like one...an...engagement...  My mind choked on the thought.

Should I open it? [pause]  Yes.

Slowly I creaked open the box to reveal two gold rings nestled in the furrow, one bearing a gleaming diamond.  Frantically, my heart started beating faster and my mind protested: I thought we had already...oh no...I can't believe this...what am I going to do...does the ring even fit?

Should I try it on? [pause] Um, yeah.

I tugged the ring from the anchor and slipped it over the knuckles of my left ring finger.  A little snug but it fits.  I'll get used to it.

Then the tears started, not the muffled supermarket kind but real, solitary weeping.  It would be a long night.  Tomorrow he'll ask.  What will I say?  As I laid in bed, many things played through my mind: thoughts of expectations (my own and others'), of stories of my cousin turning several proposals down, of overheard conversations about happy relationships and other, distressed marriages.  One last thought drifted before sleep fell: I'll bet I'm the first one in history to propose to herself.

To be continued...

Cheers

This guy

is the birthday boy today

so we are busy celebrating:

pulled pork sandwiches, blueberry pie, presents, and snow tubing.

He's a gem. And I'm a lucky girl.

. . .

1. love the paisley shirt, the swiped over bangs, and the freckles.

2. volunteering to help teach middle schoolers mock trial and negotiation skills 

3. more tributes and lovey-doveyness here and here

4. on an unrelated note, Letters to a Parent is slowly but surely blossoming again. New post there...click on over if you'd like. You can also click to subscribe to LTAP posts via email.  Fancy!

Passing the Bridge of Sighs

 

Our {20th!} anniversary is coming up next month and we dream of marking it with a trip sometime this year. Part of our routine is to toss around lots of ideas of places we could go to celebrate.  I email G a listing for a great cottage in France.  He reports the lunchtime opinions of his colleagues' favorite destinations (one vote for St. John's and one vote for Aruba), etc.

It's like window shopping, a traveler's version of Breakfast at Tiffany's.  It's great because, when decision time comes, we feel like we've almost gone to lots of exciting places, even if we just end up sneaking away for a night in the Marriott a few towns over.

In one of those dreamland discussions, we notice that the TED global conference at Oxford still has openings.

"Ooo, that would be amazing, don't you think?"

(We both ignore the price at this phase of the game.)

And then, G sucks air in through his teeth and sighs.

"Oh, but it lists punting on the itinerary."

I glance up.  "Oh, dear."

Sigh.

. . .

Many years ago, when our marriage had that just-out-of-the-box shine, we visited England together.  In Cambridge we decided to try punting on the river Cam.  (Punting, as you probably know, involves steering a long skinny boat with a long skinny pole while standing balanced in the back, like the gondoliers in Venice.)  We were students living on love, air, and jacket potatoes so we opted to guide ourselves down the river rather than spend the extra money on a guide.

G had no way of knowing the vision that was playing out inside my head--or how long it had been looping through my rose-tinged dreams.  He had no idea that I had snatched him up from where he stood and cast him in a historical BBC drama (the ones he actively avoids) in which we drift peacefully down the river, trailing my fingers in the smooth water, choral music wafting from the King's College Chapel as we drift on toward the Bridge of Sighs. (And by "we" I meant me.)

Yeah, no unrealistic expectations there.

So it turns out that punting is much more difficult than it seems--in fact, quite challenging.  We launched out down the river shakily, ping-ponging wildly between the two banks of the boat-filled river.  Next the pole got stuck in the mushy riverbottom and we spun around and around, pivoting on the stubborn pole. Then, regaining control of the pole we lost control of the boat banging broadside into another boat and knocking that guide into the water. Yes, really. (And by "we" I meant G.) 

I wish I could say I laughed and made it a lighthearted, BBC romance kind of moment.  But, no--it also turns out that I am a terrible boat passenger. I threw all sorts of "helpful" advice-slash-commands in G's direction, irritated that my vision was getting all sullied with the reality of guiding a boat with a pole down a crowded river. This, of course, was highly unhelpful and only made G feel worse.  By the end of the ride we were terse and angry with each other. 

Poor G, saddled with the heavy weight of my unspoken expectations. Notice that all of the actual work of my vision was unfairly placed squarely on his shoulders?  Is it any wonder we have avoided anything involving a boat and high expectations ever since?

Given a chance for a do-over these many years later, I would just lie back and enjoy the view.  I would laugh + jump in with the guy we knocked off (like the dance scene in It's a Wonderful Life!) and offer to buy him lunch. I would offer to take a turn steering us rather than offering backoftheboat advice.  I would lower my expectations and raise my compassion.  Or at least I hope I would.

I think we might be ready for another trip down the river after all.

And by "we," I really mean we.

Sticky situation

Over the summer we replaced our hardy old minivan Ruby (~200,000 miles!) with a brand new family mobile.  This was a long-awaited event and, as we cleared out the flotsam and jetsam from the trusty but stained Ruby, G extracted a promise from each of us:

No food in the new car.

The kids tried different techniques to test the paternal rule resolve.  They sneaked snacks aboard in their pockets, for one.  Oh, the folly of youth. These things are always discovered and woe!WOE! unto the child who sneakily munches in the back seat.  By their crumbs they are judged.

Eventually we all got used to the new reign of foodlessness and all was well.  We took 6-hour summer trips where water was the only allowed substance to touch our lips while inside the new vehicle.  If sometimes I brought a therapeutic can of Diet Coke into the car, I claimed parental exemption and crossed my fingers.

So imagine my horror when I got into the car recently and found that the gear shift between the two front seats was verrrry difficult to move.  It stuck and was almost impossible to shift into reverse or drive, especially first thing in the morning.  Like something had been spilled nearby.  I was pretty sure I hadn't spilled my soda. Had I? HAD I?!  Looking closer, I noticed several sticky spots on and around and in(!) the shifter.

I scrambled into the house to get something to wipe up the evidence.  

G: (casually) What are you doing? 

A: (slamming cupboards and rushing around) oh...I just noticed something needed to be wiped up in the car

G: (his interest piqued) Oh? What?

A: Um.  Well.  I just tried to shift the car into reverse and--I don't know how this happened--it seems like there's something spilled and sticky.

G: What?!

A: Yeah. I can't figure it out because we really haven't had anything in the car like that.

G: (Silence)

A: And it's REALLY sticky.  So, you know, I don't even think it would be...a drink...or anything.

G: Hmm.

A: (still getting towels and water)

G: So...it is sticky like honey?

A: Yeah! That's exactly what it's like.  I even tasted it and it's sweet. Why?

G: Hmm.

A: What?

G: I had a peanut butter and honey sandwich in the car.

A: (laughing) YOU did?

G: (meekly laughing) Yes...I didn't have time to eat before soccer practice so I grabbed a sandwich. 

A: (still laughing) Okay Mr. No Food in the Car!  A peanut butter and honey sandwich?!

And so it is that every morning when I get in the car, I wrestle the somewhat sticky gearshift into reverse and chuckle a little that it was G who was the first to usher the new car into "broken in" status.

. . .

Thankful for: my funny (+ honest!) G, the 10 a.m. schedule at church, great car conversations with my kids.