I Propose… Part 1: The Ring

Wendy is lucky to have me.  I’m just going to come out and say it.  Now, I am much MORE fortunate to be married to her and thankfully she has not come to the same conclusion about this tremendous inequality.  Landing a fish as excellent as my wife was challenging, but cleaning that fish and encrusting the marriage metaphor with bread crumbs was the real ordeal.

Because of sheer laziness, I’m going to leave that last paragraph the way it is, and instead of re-working it, I’m just going to acknowledge how wrong it is for me to compare my wife to a gill-breathing, edible sea creature.  Also, referring to marriage as an “ordeal” will not go unnoticed.  In the strictest use of the word, marriage shouldn’t be likened to an “ordeal”.  Marriage is life, so let’s just put that whole awkward first paragraph behind us.

Getting to marriage for me wasn’t easy, but it turns out it wasn’t hard either.  I had worked HARD to become Wendy’s boyfriend.  I put in the time, I learned the names of her family—thank you flash cards— and even learned what a charger is on a dinner table (hint: it is neither used to replenish battery energy nor is it the bitchin’ Dodge muscle car). I was fully vested in this relationship, to borrow a term from my non-existent financial advisor. 

Pulling the trigger on getting engaged, though the next step on the flowchart, was being scheduled on a calendar that I had yet to buy.  Although Wendy and I had been successfully dating for over a year-and-a-half, I just didn’t think I was at a place in my life where I was ready to pull another person into my chaos.  Wendy had her life and path together.  I was living in a state of perpetual uncertainty, with one foot in responsibility and the leg that foot was attached to, in addition to the rest of my body, residing confidently in a circus of the unknown.

The answer I had for most of my important life questions was “I don’t know.”  “Are you and Wendy going to get married?” I don’t know.  “Are you going to sign a record contract?” I don’t know.  “Are you going to get a real job?” I don’t know.  “Are you going to have the soup or the salad?” I don’t know.  These are all questions I have answered and right or wrong, I’ve accepted them.  In retrospect, I should have chosen more salads.

I was uncomfortable deep down.  Picturing a dark fork in the road, I didn’t feel comfortable asking a person who had their life incredibly together to venture down the direction of music and art with me, though she cheered me on to do so.  That should have been a clue.  But my family didn’t have Clue.  We were more of a Monopoly clan. 

The one thing that I was sure of, was that I loved Wendy.  Before I could really ever consider marriage, I felt I needed to make myself better.  She didn’t care about any of that, she only wanted to be with me.  But in the simple machine that is the male ego, I could not get the wheel to turn past not having my life together. 

Meeting Wendy’s parents was a bit intimidating.  Wendy, being an over-achiever from a family of over-achievers, wanted to show me off to her gathered clan.  I felt like she was an 8-year-old proudly showing off the garter snake she had caught in a pickle jar.  I imagined her mother, smiling calmly as one would do as a hostage at gunpoint, praying for the lid to stay on and visually measuring how big the air holes were vs. the size of the snakes head.

Of course Wendy had told me all about them and they were impressive and I wanted to make a good impression.  How would they accept a slacker simpleton into the ranks of straight ‘A’ town?

When I met Wendy’s father Tony for the first time, I was a little nervous.  I was the drummer in the beat-up jalopy who was currently dating his little girl.  He was a nuclear engineer.  No kidding.  I barely pressed together enough passing college credits to complete a communications major—a major that emphasizes the skills needed to pass information from one person to another like 99.9% of the world’s population does every day without a degree.  The communications discipline is one step up from having a degree in manners, and I’m going to shake—the possibly irradiated—hand of a man whose calculations keep reactions like you see on the sun in check.  (Speaking of “in check”, Tony’s chess skills make mine look like I’m playing marbles.  I could literally make the first move against him with any piece on the board and he’d cringe a little and ask me if I’m sure I would like to do that.)

Wendy’s mother Tish could have run a school, and has, on taking care of children.  She had raised four, and Wendy told me how organized she was.  On vacations each child, and I assume Tony, would have pre-packaged outfits for any type of weather.  The order in which she had arranged her home was so intuitive that ANYONE from all over the world could have walked in and found exactly what they were looking for in the cupboard on the first try.  For years she masterminded their community’s massive, multi-day bazaar at the high school seemingly single handedly.  A mind that organized was sure to see through any butt kissing I would bring to the table.

Luckily for me, the previous boyfriend had set the bar low enough for me to comfortably step over.  I didn’t know if it was the “please,” and “thank you” I said or if it was simply my lack of pony-tail, they seemed pleased with Wendy’s roster change and I began to get comfortable with Wendy’s family.  I could see much clearer that I would be able to spend the rest of my life with Wendy and therefore attached to her family. 

Wendy and I had many conversations about moving forward in our relationship, but I would make excuses.  They were excuses made from fear and thus inconsistent.  I need to get a better job, Wendy was still in school, then it was the band and finally I was just stonewalling.  I had finally got my own little apartment after spending a couple years living with my best friend Dave and his lovely wife Tessa, also my very good friend.  Despite me living with them for such a long time, they still didn’t have a problem hanging out with me and one day, Dave was headed to the mall and wanted to see if I wanted to tag along.

All was going well, we were talking about video games and walking through the main hallway when Dave stopped and immediately changed the subject.  “Steve, when are you going to ask Wendy to marry you?” he asked while planted firmly in the hallway.  He wanted an answer.

“I don’t know man, I just don’t think I’m ready,” floated out of me and I hoped it would be enough to just get us walking again.

“You’re never going to do better than Wendy.  She’s amazing.  What are you waiting for?” He asked, still planted in position.

“I… I don’t know,” and I heard my answer.  Indeed Steven, why don’t you know?  What is there to know?  I was starting to work it out.  Gears in my head broke free and the dust in my mind started to fall from the grooves and axels as my mind evolved and began to change right there in Bellevue Square, by the giant foam-ship play-structure that gave the entire East side of Lake Washington the flu every year.

“Well, the time has come Steve, either ask her to marry you or cut her loose.  Be a man,” he said, not in a mean way, but as the friend I trusted to steer me in the right direction if I ever lost my path.  He gave me a minute to respond, and when I didn’t speak right away, he flashed his eyes at me to remind me that he was waiting for what was in my brain to come out my mouth-hole in the form of English words concerning our conversation.

I felt a switch flick in my head, not like a kitchen light switch, but more like a giant handle switch you would ask your hunched-back assistant to throw to bring your crime against mother-nature to life.  Words began to form poorly on my lips and they spilled out of my mouth like too much ice from a water pitcher.

“I… I wiwl mewwy… I will marry her.  I will marry Wendy,” I had gotten it all out.  Once more with confidence, “I WILL MARRY WENDY.”

“Good,” Dave said as if we had just settled on a price for a breeding goat.

“And I want you to be my best man,” I said, smiling up at the person who may as well have cured me from leprosy. 

“No way,” he said flat out. 

“What?!?!” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“Do you see what it’s like when you want someone to do something important with you and they refuse?” Dave asked as we began walking again.

“You’re a jerk Dave,” I said, the irony not lost on me.

“Am I?” he asked in almost an existential tone. 

“So what’s next?” I asked, looking for Dave to direct us to the store he had come to the mall to visit.

“Now you buy a ring, and oh look,” he said gesturing to the entire mall, “we happen to be surrounded by jewelry stores.”

I don’t know if it was orchestrated.  I don’t think it was and frankly I don’t care.  Dave had given me an incredible gift that afternoon.  He had pushed my car from the snow-bank and gotten me back on life’s highway.  Wait, he had unplugged my toaster and removed the stuck piece of bread.  No, he slapped me across the face with the hand of courage.

So we immediately began looking for rings.  Luckily the subject had come up several times about what Wendy liked.  If I was going to spend two week’s salary on a ring, I wanted it to be what she wanted, and we had had the discussion enough for me to know what to look for.

I was dressed as a scrub.  I had fringy jean shorts and a vomit yellow t-shirt that had five cartoon children lined up on the front with the giant words: Safeway Kids.  The children all looked like they had bloody knees and they had rubbed the blood on their cheeks.  Had they not been cartoon children, I would have called CPS, because something was just wrong about them. 

This outfit was perfect to shop for big ticket items in.  Salespeople tend to prejudge how a person will buy based on how they look, and I looked one urine stain away from being homeless.  This tells a salesperson to not awkwardly start with jewelry that cost more than the value of the customer’s car, which in my case was worth as much as the gasoline in the tank.  I appeared as though if an engagement ring design could be settled upon, I would possibly attempt to barter for it with yard work and/or box tops.  When I walked in, I wanted them to look at me and then pull some of the higher end pieces off the floor and put them in the safe.

Mission accomplished.  I walked into Friedlander’s (who offer many quality products and employ many wonderful professionals) and saw several rings I liked.  The sales lady was helpful and I wrote down several models that I thought Wendy would really like. 

When I walked out of the store, Dave let me know what was going on while I had my head down copying numbers to the back of the business card. 

“Don’t buy there man,” said Dave.  He explained that a managerial person walked by about fifteen feet away from the salesperson and made eye contact with her.  They then lifted their head and nodded slightly asking silently if the sales person thought I might be a good buying prospect.  At that point Dave explained that the woman got a look on her face like the manager was crazy to even ask that question, pointed at me while my back was turned with one hand and gave him the thumbs-down while shaking her head in disbelief.  They then both shared a silent laugh at my expense.

Next up was Ben Bridge jewelers (yes, the name will be important later).  Dave and I went in together and we were greeted by Jaleh, a lovely professional who treated me with much more dignity than I deserved.  She was even a good sport about Dave and me joking around and had a good sense of humor.  I was pretty sure I saw the ring I wanted right off the bat, and asked Jaleh to hold it for me while I checked one more store.

I was sure that the ring at Ben Bridge was the one and by the time we made it upstairs to Zales, I was just about finished with shopping.  Dave and I walked in together with less than cheery dispositions.

“Can I help you sir?” asked a perky sales associate.  We were the only customers in the store at the time. 

“Well, I guess I need to see your cheapest engagement ring,” I said, as I shuffled up to the counter appearing to be there against my will.

The sales person, not breaking out of the script, “Ahh, you’re getting engaged!  Congratulations!”

“Yeah, whoopee for him,” Dave dripped sarcastically.

“Uh, great!” the salesperson said a bit confused, “Do you know what your soon-to-be-fiancé would like?”

“Well, she’s a big, homely, troll of a woman, I don’t have a clue what she wants and frankly I don’t care,” I start in a slightly bitter tone.  “BUT, she is carrying my baby so I suppose we should make it legitimate.”

The young associate couldn’t find a hint of a smile on my face but instead was met with an expression of bitter disappointment.  Dave jumped in on cue.

“We don’t know if it’s really your baby, it could be anybody’s,” Dave said, as if to try and stop me from making another mistake, “literally anybody’s.”

“Shut up Dave, she says she isn’t cheating anymore, let’s just get this ring and go get high,” I shot back at him.

I turned to the sales associate, “I really don’t need anything special but it will need to be a big ring.”

The associate looked nervous and had a hard time making eye contact with us.  The performance was holding, but I didn’t want to take it too far.  I scanned the cases nearest me and pushed my finger down on the glass, “none of these look like they’re going to fit her chubby little fingers.”

“Uh, well, um, do you know her ring size?” asked the sales associate, clearly flustered.

“Big, like big big.  What would you say Dave?  You’re familiar with my lady’s fingers,” I asked Dave who didn’t miss a beat.

Clad in shorts and sandals, Dave kicked his foot out and up onto the edge of the display case like a ballerina at a warm-up bar.  “There you go,” he said, pointing to and wiggling his big toe.

I leaned in to give Dave’s suspended foot a closer look.  “That looks close to the diameter it would need to be but her finger is a bit longer.”

“Well, that goes without saying,” Dave scoffed, “whose fingers look like big toes?”

“I’ve heard of some transplants for people who have lost thumbs, but I haven’t heard of any ring-finger/toe transplants,” I replied curiously, as if I couldn’t wait to stop by the library to see if toes had been swapped for other fingers.

“You,” began the sales associate, “you guys are messing with me.”  It was said as a statement but rang like a question.

“Messing with you how?” I stared straight at the associate with a face made of stone.  “Mess with you like an unplanned pregnancy with a woman who might be part ogre?  Mess with you like the shame of having that ogre woman cheat on you repeatedly?”  I then let my eyes glass over into a 10,000 mile gaze off into what surely would have been a troubling future—if any of it were true, which it wasn’t.  “So would any of these cheap rings be big enough to slide over my buddy’s big toe?”  I said as I came to.

Flustered, the associate took a long look at me, opened her mouth and then shut it.  She tried not to laugh at the painful picture I was painting of my life.  She narrowed her eyes trying to catch one final glimpse of the truth, which I had buried deep, deep inside me, just behind the duodenum.  “Something like that would need to be custom ordered,” She explained.

“No dice,” said Dave removing his leg from the case, “anytime you hear the word ‘custom’ you’re looking at over $30.”

“Yep!  Sounds too expensive,” I declared loudly, “Thank you for your time madam.  Dave, let’s go find a burrito or corndog or something.”

Dave and I turned and left as the associate called after us for one last shot at selling us an engagement ring sized for a gorilla.

We made our way back to Ben Bridge where Jaleh was waiting for us.  She had the ring boxed up and looking pretty.  “Did you find anything else you liked?” she asked of our trip to their competition.

“That last place was weird,” said Dave shaking his head, “they weren’t able to handle our request.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t like how Wendy was being portrayed,” I added.

“You were pretty harsh with all that ‘knocked up’ talk,” said Dave. 

“I thought your sandaled foot on their display case was a nice touch,” I said.

Jaleh looked from me to Dave smiling and shaking her head.  “I’m so glad you found what you wanted here and didn’t do here what I think you did to that last store.”

“Yeah, they didn’t deserve that,” I said, “but you only buy an engagement ring what, two, three times in your life?”

We did make it to the video game store.  I know some of you wanted to make sure we remembered.  We bought one of the Madden football games.

Walking through the mall with the ring felt good.  I could physically feel my life moving on to the next phase and out of a fog.  There was purpose and excitement.  The world seemed more vibrant.  Everything seemed better.  You know, as I passed the window of The Gap I could have sworn that the sign in the window had said 20 percent off of jean shorts when I had walked in, but now almost as if it were magic… 25 percent off!

“So how are you going to ask her?” Dave inquired while swinging his game disc around in its plastic bag.

“It’s going to be a surprise,” I answered.

“Really?  You’re not going to just have it sitting out on the counter for her the next time she comes over?” Dave asked.  He really is an artist, and although he makes his living with drawing and computers, his greatest medium has always been sarcasm.

“Alright, I’ll tell you how I’m going to do it, I’m going to need a little help,” I said.  And then I told him the plan that I had been quietly putting together ever since the day I met her.

 

 

To be continued in Part Two: The Setup

In Part Two:  A tiny ring is hard to hide, I talk it over with the families and paranoia sets in.