A lot of people have asked to hear “the engagement story”. I guess that’s the normal reaction, right - the obligatory “oh my god!”s, “so how’d he doooo it” and “where did it happen”s. You know, the questions where everyone's voices seem to go up about an octave as they kinda squeal? All waiting with bated breath for me to verbally map out every last centimeter of a moment that’s supposed to be so pivotal, and one every girl recounts and remembers in golden tones, forever.
But I told the story the only way I know how: honestly.
We had talked about it, you know, getting married. I had brought it up several months prior. I said - fuck it. Let’s just do it. We knew we wanted to be together. And I wanted my grandma to be there while she’s still around, and he wanted the same for his grandmothers. So, why not? Not a big ceremony or anything like that, given that I never really wanted to get married in the first place. Just a wild, awesome party. His best friend would officiate as we stand next to the bar. Maybe we even take shots during the vows, or make the vows a drinking game; who knows? Who cares? As long as everyone has a great time, right?
But back then, it was all still an innocent idea. A conversation of a possibility. And for some reason, when I got home from work that fateful night when he proposed, all of that changed. In the blink of an eye, it went from an exciting imagining to something very, very real. I nearly threw up, almost had a panic attack, went white as a sheet and fell totally mute as my boyfriend nervously waited for my answer.
I was finding it impossible to say yes. Why? This was the healthiest relationship I’d ever been in. The man on his knee was one who made me be better, who supported and loved me more than any other man ever had. We had our issues, and when I wanted to throw in the towel, he refused to let me leave. He had us work through it, and we came out stronger for it. So the problem wasn’t him. It wasn’t even that I wanted other men, or to stay single. The problem was what had formed invisible hands clutching my lungs so I could barely breathe: that this could be...it.
That “it” had always been the stick in my craw. "It" being the result of me making a choice, turning a perfect something that lived only in my head into a real-life, transitional decision that might be heart-breakingly disappointing. I’ve never been good with finality for myself, and for me, decisions represent exactly that: finality. And in that moment - him proposing - I could see my path fast-forwarding like some terrifying amusement park ride. Narrowing into a single track, while my hand desperately grasps for Straws of Possibility as I whiz past them not only too fast, but forever. How could I say yes to this? How could this really be it?
I only started to admit that maybe I had commitment issues twice before: when I wanted to leave NYC, and later, when I was thinking about leaving the service industry. In my head, the idea of a major change always seems exhilarating at first. But then I would think about it. Really, really think about it, until I pushed myself right off the cliff of overthinking and changed my mind. Excuses and rationales would branch out on the conspiracy theory board of my brain, with lines of red string and math equations. And inevitably (meaning in like 3 hours), I’d have officially talked myself out of whatever it was that I'd been so hyped up about. Seriously, the only decision that I had no hesitation in making, and that I couldn’t imagine ever having chosen otherwise, was getting my boobs done. And good god, what the hell does that say about me?
So yeah, one might slowly nod in agreement that my reaction of feeling sick, eking out a “yes”, and then weeping for a half hour the next morning could literally be the only way an engagement of mine could have gone.
I’ve started to warm up to the concept since, especially after talking to my fiancée as I blew my nose through a box of tissues. He was so understanding, and listened to what I was saying despite how painful some of it must have been for him to hear.
What it came down to for me was this: who do I want to be, and what kind of life do I want?
Do I want to be that girl I was for years, (the girl a part of me admittedly still craves to be)? Working constantly but otherwise keeping to myself, with the occasional magical night of whirlwind fantasies come to life? Who writes about those sporadic encounters, who's always learning about herself and people but never really getting anywhere? Who’s impulsive and destructive and has bad habits and craves toxic men? Who lets her fears keep her in that safe place of never having to decide? Where - of course - everything in her dreamy world will always be magical... because it never has to be real?
Or, do I want to let myself be strong enough to turn the page on that chapter, to admit staying that girl will only suit to keep me stagnant? To understand that choosing a path doesn’t mean it’s all over, or this is good-bye to that girl forever. This path can include all of me, even the free-spirited wild child, but combined with acceptance that I have to make choices and pick directions, be proactive and commit to things - romantic, or otherwise - if I ever do want to get anywhere. If it’s wrong, it’s wrong, but to at least have the courage to decide. Because otherwise I’ll be bobbing along in that pleasant haze forever, and die exactly where I started.
It’s tough, especially as a writer. I'm someone who is constantly in my head. My imagination and inner voice rule me more powerfully, and in more areas of my life, than I'd care to admit. So I don't always mind that bobbing along, you know? But I also don't want to stay in the same place forever. I wish I could say I did some mediation and came out on the other side with all the zen and answers one could want. But I didn’t. I still have no idea if engagement and marriage are right for me - all I know is the person I said yes to, is. And for someone who never really imagined being proposed to, that's really all I could ever hope for.
