My husband is convinced that he’s a very romantic man, and in most cases, I would be inclined to agree. We just celebrated our sixth anniversary this past weekend, which brings to mind how it all began. I have to admit that his proposal was quite romantic, though it took some time to come to this conclusion–like, six years.
The story begins on New Years Day in 2006. Liam, who is very goal oriented, wanted to discuss our plans for the coming months. After two years of dating, I had an idea of how important goals are to him, so I was prepared with a few suggestions. What followed is nothing short of classic, and in most opinions epic. I give to you the story, however brief it may be, of Liam’s marriage proposal.
“Let’s sit down and talk about our goals for this year,” Liam said, patting a spot next to him on the couch.
He was already waiting with his notepad open, bullet points at the ready. I could see several mentions of exams for his Microsoft certifications, plans for getting his American citizenship, and the desire to buy a new car.
I looked down at my own list, which included notes about achieving my real estate licensure and maybe, possibly, if he was amenable, becoming engaged. My list didn’t seem to match his, and I felt a bit of a pang in my heart. Still, I was never one to mince words, so when he asked me for the first thing on my list, I let fly.
“I’d like to know that we’re at least one step closer to getting married,” I whispered.
His gaze landed on my pitiful list of goals, eyes wide and blue and surprised. It was certainly not what he’d expected, and I could see him toying with the idea of discussing the real estate portion of my hopes and dreams before moving on to diamonds.
“Umm, errrr,” he said, his eyes moving back and forth between my paper and his. I knew he was desperately trying to decide if Microsoft should be the next word out of his mouth, but he swallowed the urge and sighed.
“You want to get married?” he finally asked.
“Well, we don’t have to get there immediately, but I’d like to at least know you want to. You do want to, right?”
“Ummm, errrr,” he said again, his cheeks filling with color.
“It’s just… We’ve been dating for almost two years now, and I’d just like to know that it’s…going somewhere, you know?”
“Well, hell. If it means that much to you, let’s get married this weekend.”
And there it was. My proposal. It wasn’t decked with flowers or accompanied by swelling, victorious music. There was no cheesy message on the Jumbotron or a diamond ring. And that’s okay, because I don’t really like diamonds anyway.
We actually married two weeks later, on January 14, in a very small ceremony in a tiny country church. I wore a dress that I’d bought in college for recitals and concerts, while Liam wore a button-down shirt and tie. We exchanged rings that we’d purchased the day before, on a Friday the 13th, and then left the chapel with my immediate family in tow to find that it had snowed while we were inside.
I laughed for ages over my proposal story, and everyone laughs with me because, well, they know Liam. I see now, though, after six years with this wonderful man that his gruff and clueless request was simply his way of trying to give me what I wanted as soon as he possibly could. I don’t regret the haste. I don’t regret the size of the wedding. I don’t regret the one-night honeymoon. And I’ll never, ever regret the words he spoke that got us where we are today.