Lesson 9: The Ring Matters

I know you were probably expecting a conclusion to My Day in the last blog. Believe me, so was I . I promise, this will be then end of the saga of My Day. THE day. The day I knew was coming. Then we can move onto more fun things.

I knew I could not just wear any old thing on My Day. More importantly, I knew I couldn't possibly find it in the QCA. I ventured home to Arlington Heights and felt at home at Ann Taylor Loft, my absolute favorite shop for a number of reasons:

1.) They have such cute, classic things.

2.) You can score pretty good sales there.

3.) Their sizes run big, so I was a six there. What more could I want?

I spent an hour or so determining which dress was THE dress. I wanted something preppy. Something with clean lines. Something that screamed, "This is the type of woman you are asking to marry you. She's sweet. She's chic. She's clever. And she sure is beautiful." Like a beacon in the night, it shined upon the abyss of unworthy options. A little black cotton knee-length fitted dress. Speckled with pink and red flowers, complete with a charming little bow in the front. Add some black slide sandals and I was stylin'. It made me look youthful, yet mature. It made me look thin, yet curvy. It made me feel lucky and in love.

Now, before I continue, you must understand something. My parents had no clue that Nathan and I had spent nearly every night together in the same bed since we first got "together" in June 2000. I practically LIVED at his frat house. So it should not be surprising that he answered the phone that Saturday morning, the morning of My Day. My godmother was visiting my parents from Jersey that weekend back in Illinois, and MAYBE I had mentioned that I thought I was going to get engaged that day. And MAYBE my mom mentioned something to my godmother that I thought I was going to get engaged that day. And MAYBE I almost died when Nathan groggily answered the ringing phone that morning. Luckily, it was my godmother on the line. My godmother who has four grown and married daughters who knows how these things work. As I just about yaked, he handed me the phone. Remember, he didn't know that I knew it was My Day. I placed the phone to my ear and my godmother calmly said, "I know you have company. I just wanted to say I hope you have a wonderful day." I said thanks and felt relieved at how calm she was about me having a boy, which she politely referred to as "company," at my house at 7:30 in the morning. She must have settled down my mom, because when I talked to her, she didn't even mention him being there. Looking back, I bet she was just too fired up about planning a wedding to worry about the obvious premarital affairs/mortal sins of her eldest daughter.

I went to my first class that day. The LONGEST three hours of my life. Jittery. Fluttering. Bubbling. Skipped my second class. Got home to my very first apartment at about noon. Nathan was getting things in order to go. He had me iron a button-down shirt. (Ah ha!) As he kind of packed, he casually asked, "Do you still want to go? We don't have to if you don't feel like it." Tried to throw me off, the dirty jerk! I admit, it did take me aback for about a minute. For a split second, I thought, "Damn. Let down again. And this time, I even bought a dress." When I explained that of course I still wanted to go, he was all, "Okay. Just checking." We loaded up the car. Drove up Interstate 151 through Dubuque and into Madison. Gorgeous drive. Though trees and bluffs. My Day was a clear and crisp, sunny April day. Nathan did not seem any different. Not nervous. Not excited. Not nothing. Just his normal laid back self. Crackin' jokes. Singing along to songs. Holding my hand.

We arrived in Madison. Checked into the hotel. He then realized he not only forgot his shirt, but also the shoes he was going to wear. First new hint that suggested he was nervous about something. He started freaking out a little, which is out of character for him. I found myself telling him not to worry and to have no fear, The Gap was near. When in a pinch, just go to your nearest Gap. Off we went. Selected a blue oxford striped shirt and a pair of cute flip flops. Spent the rest of the afternoon strolling State Street. Felt like undergrads all over again. After a bit, we headed back to the hotel to freshen up for dinner. Nathan had one of my girlfriends call The Tornado Room to make reservations for two in a "private area" of the restaurant. As mentioned previously, for Nathan to make reservations was a BIG deal. Even bigger since it was at a chic steakhouse.

We got to the restaurant. Nathan seemed flustered. We were seated at a table near the kitchen...not very private, huh? His eyes kept wandering, darting around, checking out other tables, muttering, "This isn't going to work. This isn't going to work at all." And I was like, dude, relax. The server emerged in the midst of his mini panic attack. I swear, before she finished her spiel, he ordered a vodka gimlet. Right off the bat. Second new hint that suggested he was nervous about something. Pretty much the whole time, he did not really pay all that much attention to me and seemed rather preoccupied with the fact that for whatever reason, our table was definitely not going to work. By this point, I was 99.9% sure this was My Day. Therefore, I was 99.9% sure that he was shitting his pants. I found myself trying to settle him down. I convinced him to relax, enjoy the food and drinks, and that we would go for a nice walk to Menona Terrace, a kind of huge patio that overlooks Lake Menona, after dinner. He obliged.

The server returned. He ordered the special. THE SPECIAL! This from a man who doesn't like to go to Chili's because it's too expensive. I got prime rib. Hmmm...forgotten clothes, booze off the bat, THE SPECIAL?!? Now I was 100% sure this was My Day. We got our food. He attempted to delve into his hunk of tenderloin with a spoon. No joke. He barely noticed until I said, "Nathan, you're using a spoon." He kind of looked at the spoon and giggled, visibly anxious. Then we exchanged giggles across the table. When we finished eating, he grabbed both of my hands and launched his first attempt at a proposal.

"How long have we been together?" he inquired.

"Almost three years," I coyly replied.

"Three years. That's a long time," he continued.

"Yep, it is," I begged. Wondering what was next. A sonnet? Haiku? A simple list of all the reasons he loved me? Or none of the above.

"This isn't going to work!" he abruptly fretted.

I made the executive decision that we needed to get the heck out of there. ASAP. I told him to relax again and that we'd get our bill and go to Menona Terrace. And we did.

It evidently was not his plan to pop the question there, at Menona Terrace. It worked out well, though. Menona Terrace was kind of special to us, even if he didn't initially realize it. Long story short (don't worry, the long story will be told later), I was really sick the summer before my senior year in college. He had been in Canada fishing with his fam the week I had been hospitalized. When he finally got home, we walked to Menona Terrace and I brought him up to speed on all the crap that had been going on. It felt right to have the engagement happen there.

It's amazing how many details I can remember about some of the stupidest memories in my life. Go figure a lot of parts from the next fifteen minutes or so are kind of a blur. I'll do the best I can.

It was early in the evening. Still light out, but could just start to feel the cool of dusk. An available iron rod table sat at the front of the patio with two chairs. He sat on my right. He took my hands again like he did at the restaurant. Launched the same pitch. How long have we been together, that's a long time, yata yata. For the life of me, I wish I could remember exactly what he said. I know that he said something about how he used to think we had to be together for a certain amount of time for it to be right and how he was more or less scared to jump into it, but then how more recently, he was more scared of losing me and never wanted to. Again, like a scene out of a romantic comedy, he got down on one knee. Reached into his pocket. Pulled out a little gray box. I can't believe I wasn't more...nervous or explosive or overwhelmed. I just wasn't. I was eager and serene and ready. Maybe that was a good thing.

When the box opened, it was everything I ever didn't want and more.

1.) The band was gold. I don't wear gold. He knew that.

2.) Even worse, it was lacy gold. Like what was cool in maybe 1983.

3.) Yet even worse (oh yes, it can get worse), the stone was oval. I have nothing against ovals. I just really, really, really wanted a square, princess cut diamond. He knew that, too.

A word on rings before I continue. When I first started bugging Nathan about getting engaged, I maintained that I did not care about the ring. That he could get me just a band. Just a small stone. Just something. I didn't care. I wanted him, not the ring. He never believed me. Well, based on the face I allegedly made when given this anti-Maggie engagement ring, deep down, I cared about the ring. A lot.

So, what's a girl to do when the man of your dreams gives you a horrible ring? Fake it. Or try to. I took the ring out of the box. Slipped it on my finger. Held it up in the sunlight to check if maybe it looked prettier when it sparkled. It didn't. I was just baffled. Mortified. Panicked. He could have been talking all through those first few seconds of disgust. I don't remember. I was worried about showing the hideous ring to my girlfriends. What was I going to do? What I always do. Talk before I think.

"Is this a joke?" I pleaded.

The gigantic smile on his face immediately faded into a concerned grimace and he whined, "You don't like it?"

SHIT! I thought it wasn't a joke. The ugly ring would remain on my finger until the day I died. Making my man hands even uglier than they already were. SHIT! He actually picked this out.

He continued and explained, "I know it's know what you wanted. But I got a great deal on it. You really don't like it???"

SHIT! "No, it's great," I lied through my teeth. I could have vomited. Preferably on the ugly ring so the acid from my stomach somehow would ruin the diamond so we'd have to get a new one. SHIT!

Then it hit me. His concerned grimace transformed into giggles. He laughed and laughed. Squished face. Hand on his belly. The whole bit. I was so confused. Had he gotten my goat? Was he so freaked out that he was having a breakdown about getting engaged? Or maybe I missed The Lip Thing that covered his his facetious plot. Passed his stiff wiggles off as engagement jitters.

"That's not the ring," he laughed.

He explained that he knew I was totally full of it whenever I would talk about how the ring didn't matter. He knew I wanted a nice ring. He was no fool. He told me how he and his friend, K.G., when to K-Mart that week to pick out the ugliest ring they could find to trick me. I can just imagine those two ass clowns laughing it up at K-Mart, choosing the most convincingly gross cubic zirconium at the jewelry counter. The whole time he told this drawn out story, he held the white suede box with the real ring in it. About twenty words into his explanation, I pointed to the box, hinting to him to shut the F up and give me the real ring. Nathan was so wrapped up in his hilarious prank and how well it played out, he failed to notice my excitement about the real ring. FINALLY, he kind of went, "Oh!" and got back down on one knee.

"Will you marry me?"

You bet! He was so proud of the real ring. When the box opened, it held the most exquisite ring I had ever seen. More than exquisite, it was just plain perfect. (Please refer to "Lesson 7: Offer Him a Quasi-Ultimatum" for details.)

As we walked down the street and back to the hotel for a celebratory cocktail, I announced to everyone we passed that we just got engaged, holding up our interlaced hands. At the hotel bar, we had the bartender take a picture of us. It's in our engagement scrapbook. I love it. We're holding hands so the ring shows. I look like a little kid on Christmas morning. He looks like a deer in headlights.

Now, I of course realized how big of a deal this was for him and how he was probably a bit beguiled. During the conversation in my head with my imaginary wedding planner, I decided it was not the appropriate time to discuss such planning matters and decided instead to just enjoy the moment. But alas, Nathan jumped the gun and asked when we would get hitched and added the sooner the better. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. The man who wanted to wait five years to get engaged all of the sudden wanted to get married in a snap. When I asked him when he would like to, he replied, "Next Tuesday." Point being, as soon as we could. That's kind of how he is. Once Nathan makes up his mind, he rolls with it. Full speed ahead.

We headed up to the room. Called everyone. Family. Friends. Turns out all my friends knew it was coming. After we touched base with all the essentials, we did what any Badgers would do: went out and got blasted and had a blast doing it. Separated at one point of the night, which was totally my drunk fault. Holly had made it crystal clear to Nathan that we needed to stay together the whole night. Well, I wanted to go to a bar I spent a lot of time at in college, the beloved Kollege Klub, to show off my ring to all my sorority sisters who were still in undergrad. Nathan didn't like going there when we were in school, so in my intoxicated and ecstatic mind, it seemed like a good deal to separate for a bit and meet up again. I don't think he had too much say in the matter. Went there. Showed it off. Met back at a bar. Then to his frat. Then back to our hotel to make sweet engaged love...yeah, right! That's the best part of the story. We were so tired, excited, and over-served, we didn't even do it. Ha!

My Day was great. One of a kind. And Nathan didn't twinkle that day. He shined.