Marriage Proposal

I love "awe shucks" stories. I love writing when the writer bears all and is incredibly honest. James Rhodes, in the UK Guardian, pens such a story with his marriage proposal. There are many funny lines in his story, but its insights, and mostly his genuine giddy happiness at finding his love--and that she would marry him!--makes for a wonderful story. Anybody who loves films will get an additional smile out of his Mike Liegh/Richard Curtis references.

Below is the story by Rhodes in full (the accompanying picture of the furry man and his furry friend have nothing to do with the Rhodes' story; just put a bearded guy and a furry critter next to him and it makes me go, "awe", so you might say it's May's obligatory awe picture). I hope you like both.

A moment that changed me – my marriage proposal
--James Rhodes

Anyone witnessing it would have been puzzled – slightly scared, even: an obviously anxious man jumping up and down, arms waving, a few tears and a bit (a lot) of snot on his face in a public park, with a young woman opposite him looking startled.

I’m not even sure if there were witnesses. I had developed some kind of tunnel vision that evening. My field of vision was limited to one single thing. Thing? Awful choice of word. Woman? Wouldn’t do it justice. Miracle? Syrupy overkill. But “person” is too pedestrian. Fuck it, I’ll go with miracle. Let’s call a spade a spade.

After spending six years with my girlfriend (why are these words so hopelessly underwhelming?) I wanted to ask her to marry me. I’d given her six years to realise the gravity of the mistake she had made by choosing me, and despite our ups and downs she was still here.

When we had first met I weighed under eight stone and was covered with scars, visible and otherwise. She was eight years younger than I was, clearly knew the inside of a gym, radiated kindness and owned a face that just full-on punched you in the guts.

I was a musician who had no concerts, no career, no CDs, no discernible prospects. I had a dodgy, rented basement flat with a shitty upright piano, some decent meds and a good psychiatrist. And yet she seemed interested. It took me an hour to craft a short text (I was still baffled that I’d manage to con her number out of her), and she responded, signing off with three x’s. Not X’s, or – even worse – Xxx’s. Just a simple, beautiful xxx. And everything changed.

We survived our early-days lies, ironed out our respective crinkles, started slowly to take off the masks, and over time learned the hardest lesson about love: that, if it is to last, it’s the other’s humanity and not your fantasy of them you must love. You have to get on board with the Mike Leigh version and discount the Richard Curtis schmaltz. It’s a lot harder. But the flipside is that it’s a thousand times deeper.

After a few months apart around the five-year mark, while we both let that giant truth sink in, we found our way back to each other. And I found myself less than three months away from jumping up and down in the park.

It was 6 June 2013. The previous day I had taken her father out for lunch and shown him my tax returns, income projections, bank statements, character references and anything else I could think of to show him I wasn’t a 38-year-old Holden Caulfield. I wore a suit. I asked his permission to propose to his only daughter. And, after he was a bottle down, he didn’t say no.

I bought the ring. And then bought another ring as the first one had to be resized, and that would take a few weeks. I was flustered. I didn’t want to wait. And have a habit of hiding my impatience and anxiety by buying things. Armed with ring number two, I bought a picnic basket (still anxious) and filled it with her favourite foods. I made a playlist (shut up), then packed a Bluetooth speaker, a rug, a rose plant and a candle. And as casually as I could, I texted to let her know I’d pick her up from work that evening.

A few hours later, we were sitting in the secret garden in Regent’s Park. She thought I was being all romantic and taking her for a picnic in the park. It was sunny, and I was still, six years on, feeling like the malcoordinated kid who got picked first for the school football team.

We ate. I couldn’t swallow. I hit “play” and got on one knee. I have no recollection of what I said other than that it was, thankfully, more Curtis than Leigh, and she said yes.

She cried. I stood up. She was going for the Hollywood version, preparing to run and jump into my arms. She said “Jump!” to warn me. I had no fucking idea what she meant. And so I just started jumping. Because when a girl this beautiful, this transcendent, this life-affirming, says ‘“Jump!”, that’s what you do. I looked like an idiot. It was awkward. My embarrassment was so tangible it made leaves fall from trees.

But now we’re married. And I’m still jumping.

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Link to the Rhodes' story at The Guardian: http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/may … are_btn_fb

Link to the picture and story of the cute furry guy and his cute furry friend: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2526244/S … amily.html