The convenient thing about dating crazy people is that they propose to you straight away. The future is now – no need to worry about hyphenated surnames or hanging about on WillOurKidsBeUgly? dot com sites. Indecent proposals help keep the queue moving along nicely.
MatrimonyMadness is my favourite deal-breaker as it quickly provides a wonderful excuse for me to bolt. Think about it: my only long-term relationship was with a man who refused to marry me. Turned out he was already married to his best friend! But I digress …
On average, twice a year, I find myself innocently happening along when suddenly, out of the casual encounters blue, someone goes and spoils it by wanting to get married. I have been collecting failed engagements like Happy Meal toys. It all started when I jilted poor Ricky at the apple tree altar in grade 2. Flashback to the good ol’ days:
- High school: got caught wearing two promise rings at the same time. (Why did God invent two ring fingers then, huh!?)
- Uni: WWF Newmarket. Tow Truck Timmy vs Motorbike Mike. The man, the winch, the legend.
- Last year: my last proposer asked if we could we please live in separate flats when we’re married so he could remain on the dole
Alas! Just when I thought I had put this all behind me, and could carry on living the simple, single life forever, I got extremely drunk last week and accidentally agreed to marry Mr. T – oops!
When I came to, I quickly called the FUBAR cousin to review the events of the previous night. Apparently she was eating all the couscous while the whole thing went down and thus was absolutely useless to me, except for a stunning review of the food and everyone’s outfit.
Shit, now I would have to call Mr. T and get his version. And, since he opted not to neck a bottle of wine whilst singing the Bugs Bunny and Tweety theme tune, his recollection would be much more reliable than mine. So I did something I have not done in a long time: I thought about someone else’s feelings. The great riddle was how, with grace and charm, does one say: “Um did we accidentally get engaged in English, French or Arabic when we were drunk the other night? Cuz I’m not sure what I committed to. Oh and did I also agree to anal? Cuz if not, we also need to discuss your aim.”
According to moi: I had just slipped out of my wet clothes and into a dry martini when Ginger Rogers and Groucho Marx arrived and we all did an impromptu tap dance, finishing with high dives into a fountain. FUBAR cousin: thinks not.
Finally, the WeNeedToTalk moment arrived and he was at my door with something behind his back, telling me to close my eyes. “Please don’t be a ring, please don’t be a ring, puh-leeeeez don’t be a ring!” After a minute of pee-pee-pants agony, he was down on one knee, arm out stretched, presenting me with … the cutest pair of shoes in the whole wide world! They fit perfectly, exactly my style, my colour, my heel. Clearly, the wedding is back on!
While I was jumping around and screaming in my new shoes during our tête-à-tête, I managed to glean that he wants to get married this Christmas! I gave him my carefully planned counter-attack: ”In my country, in my culture, it’s customary for you to meet my parents and for me to meet yours before any engagement can be discussed. Very, very disrespectful if you don’t.” Then I smiled and fluttered my eyelashes. (Women’s lib can’t do everything you know!)
“So if we can wait for me to go to your country, and for you to come to mine that would be The Right Thing To Do.” Quickly adding up the costs, holiday time and logistics, I mentally calculated that I had just got myself at least another year or two of time-biding goodness. Surely by that time the problem will have worked itself out.
Thankfully, it went very well and though he was surprised at my choice, he respected it. Everybody wins: I get a subsidized holiday in the sun, I get funky shoes and I get more couscous. Am I missing anyone in this equation? … nope, don’t think so!
When trying to figure out why on earth someone would propose after only a few months, my friend said he’s probably just one of those men who wear their heart on their sleeve. I told her that sleeves are for noses, not hearts.
This close call showed me something though. I decided that I wanted to compromise and make some sort of committment in return for his bravery. He now has his own toothbrush and towel at my place. I draw the line at his own drawer, though. There is no reason why my wardrobe space should have to compromise!
Where, exactly, is your afianced’s home country and can you get a reprieve by telling his mom how much you admire your Jewish grandfather and are thinking of converting?
See you in 37 more sleeps!
LOL! He’s from Tunisia, hence Mr. T. I did say as much, but he’s too accepting to care. Spoke to his parents and sister in broken arabic, and they think I’m great. No out in sight! And I don’t think I want one!