drinkerthinker

Walking home from Hana Sushi on a cold January night, 2008. “So somehow I got it into my head that you were going to propose on my birthday. And I know that’s ridiculous and I’m not saying this to make you do it, but I can’t stop thinking about and so I had to tell you to get it out there.” His reaction was uncharacteristically harsh and surprised me, and my confession was quickly forgotten in tears and apologies.

A few weeks later, “I thought that for your birthday we would do something just the two of us, like going away for the weekend. I found a nice B&B in the Berkshires.” I agree, easily convinced by the promise of a whirlpool tub in the bathroom at the inn. We take a few days off work and plan a long weekend together. I’m now thoroughly convinced that he is not planning on proposing, but was expecting some piece of jewelry to placate me, as it were.

The morning we are meant to leave, he goes out to pick up the rental car and to run a few birthday errands. The hours drag by until he returns bearing a large wicker basket, which I’m told not to open. A bit later I’m allowed to peep inside the basket and see three wrapped boxes: one the size of a rubik’s cube, one the size of a shoe box, and one long, rectangular box. “Well, that cube is certainly too large to be a ring. Maybe he got me a bracelet instead.” We add a bottle of wine and one of scotch to the basket, along with a stack of DVDs, and pack it into the car.

Driving west, he mentions several times that if I want, we can always cut the weekend short. I dismiss it every time, not understanding why he keeps bringing it up. The narrow roads are messy from recent snowfall, and it takes us several hours to reach North Adams.

The Porches is a gorgeous, cozy inn comprised of several brightly-colored houses on River Street, just a short walk from Mass MOCA. We have a one-bedroom suite in the red house, which contains a sitting room with couch and desk, a bedroom with feather covers and pillows, and a beautiful bathroom. There is slight disappointment when we learn that the inn doesn’t have a restaurant or room service, squelching my dream of pancakes in bed on my birthday.

Breakfast arrives the next morning in tin lunchpails instead. A thermos of coffee, glass bottles of juice and milk, and a croissant with butter and jam. We eat in the cushy feather bed, watching Futurama on DVD. It’s February 10, 2008, my thirtieth birthday.

“After this episode, why don’t you open your gifts? Start with the small square one.”

I go to the bathroom to wash jam and crumbs off my hands, then lift the lid on the basket. “The little one isn’t in here.” “OK, well, open your card first, then we’ll look for it.”

The card simply says, “I love you … Always.”

He pulls his right hand out from under the pillow, a red and gold box open to reveal a ring. “Lizzy, I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

“Yes. Really? Yes.”

Then several quiet minutes of hugs, kisses, and staring at the ring. The other two gifts are opened to reveal a bottle of Cartier-label champagne and a pair of champagne flutes. I pull the cork and champagne spills down the side of the bottle. Rushing to the bathroom, I start to put my hand under the tap and then pull back, some instinctual reaction to not get the ring wet. “It’s platinum. I think it’ll be ok,” he laughs from the other room.

“Did you tell anyone that you were going to propose?” “Well, Mom and my brothers. And Allen and Reid. And Tacita and Catherine went shopping with me. And Cara. And then Kim because I got nervous on Thursday night and needed another opinion on the ring.”

“I didn’t ask your parents, though, because I thought you would want to tell them yourself.” The offers to leave early suddenly make sense. “We should drive to Connecticut tomorrow and tell them in person!” “Do you want to call anyone now?” “No, I want to tell my parents first.” “Um, I’m actually a little surprised that you aren’t freaking out and calling everyone right now.”

The ring is miles too big, so I cut a length of yarn from my knitting and wrap it around and around the band. It’s snowing again. We cancel the birthday dinner plans and order in pizza, drinking with it the bottle of Hitching Post and a few glasses of scotch.

He tells me that he panicked at the last minute and was worried the ring was gone. “I had the three packages gift wrapped at the paper store. Suddenly I was convinced that the woman had slipped it out of the box, even though I was watching her the whole time. I unwrapped it while you were in the bathroom, because I thought it would be horrible if you opened it and it was empty.” The paper and ribbons were stuffed under his side of the bed.

We leave for Connecticut early on Monday morning, after buying a pair of coffee mugs in the gift shop as a memento. Walking into the deli, Mom is surprised to see us. “I thought you were going to say you eloped, and I would have been so mad,” she tells us later. “We decided to come show you my birthday present,” I say, pulling my hand from my coat pocket. “Oh, Lizzy.” Her voice is softer than I would have expected as well. “Fran, come over here.” “Hey, well it’s about time! Congratulations you two! Did I tell you Doug’s mom died?” and Dad’s back on to other topics like a TV remote on the fritz. Mom pops into excited mode, and starts introducing us to her store friends. Our engagement announcement goes on the chalkboard beside the front door.

After an hour of visiting, we return to Boston and to the Cartier store to have the ring resized. It hurt having to give the ring away for four days. As someone who never felt like an engagement ring would be necessary, I had become impossibly attached to it overnight. This amazing beautiful thing on my hand, all because I was lucky enough for him to love me.

Rarely a day goes by that we don’t have this conversation: “Maybe you didn’t hear, but I’m marrying this terrific guy.” “Oh really? He must be pretty lucky.”

He is lucky, and I am lucky. And I hope we continue to feel so lucky year after year.