Several months ago when we went to visit my parents, B went out to lunch with my father. This would be when he asked him for "permission" to marry me. Yes, that whole idea of being given permission to marry is archaic, heteronormative, and probably very, very anti-feminist ... but it meant a lot to B to be able to do it. I think it meant a lot to my father, too.
Then there was the problem of the ring. B and I aren't exactly in the upper tier of income brackets. We always knew the engagement would come when the money could be saved. But, thankfully, I'm not high maintenance (nor do I have unrealistic expectations) and B has very generous family members. Also, it was his birthday in July, and before we knew it, the money was there.
I knew that 8/09/10 was going to be a good day. B made reservations at the Melting Pot (yes, it's franchise, but we live in Baltimore ... there isn't a lot of choice up here) and I came home from work early to get my hair did for dinner--I even put on a new dress. B came home from work and jumped in the shower. He put on a purple polo--I think that's when I knew shit was going down.
B pulled a scrapbook out and said, "I've been working on this for awhile." It was the history of our relationship in photographs. Indiana, Miami, Baltimore, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Knoxville, Philadelphia, Easter, NYC, Molly & Luna. Everything. Then, I turned to the last page.
Predictably, my hands flew to my mouth and I looked over at him. B was on both knees on the bed, ring in hand. He asked me to marry him. I kissed him ... and forgot to say yes. He was laughing and putting the ring on my finger before I remembered that I should probably agree to the terms.
Then, we went to dinner and it was effing DELICIOUS. Best engagement ever.
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