Terms of Engagement (or the Union of Beer and Wine)

Sometimes I really wish this blog was more like a fireside chat, that I was adorned in a smoking jacket of the finest silk and that my British accent didn't suck so much. I want to steal that Masterpiece Theatre vibe because some things deserve it. Some news doesn't belong in a blog, and shouldn't even be delivered over the phone let alone in a text message, but since this is how we communicate these days, shit happens.

By being new to Facebook and therefore unaware of its CNN-like power to distribute news, I accidentally told everyone that I'm engaged. I did it because I was giddy and I thought it'd be neat to change my relationship status, to see the way it looks. On Myspace, only the more astute (or stalker-ish) folks would've noticed. On Facebook, it's like a 1950s anchor who flashes up on the screen to say, "We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this breaking news item!"

Oh well. Say it loud, say it proud, right?

If you know me then you know that was a pretty Chris Horne way to get the word out. Consequently, in real life, I'm either telling people like a four-year-old who just got a brand new pony, or trying to figure out whether they already know since EVERYONE is on the internet. That's not an exaggeration. Within a couple of hours, I had about 50 comments congratulating me. (I've since learned that there is an etiquette to responding to the news of an engagement. You congratulate the will-be groom and tell the will-be bride that you're very happy for her, which, in my case, sounds like someone giving their condolences to Heather. What etiquette covers appropriate ways to respond on a social networking site?)

If that wasn't Chris Horne enough for you, maybe this will be: I proposed about three weeks before I intended to.

I was brain-storming ways to propose since I met her, but I got serious about it in August, researching potential locales and getting her to agree to go on a secret getaway with me in December, telling her it was just to blow off steam between the colliding pressures of work and the approaching holidays.

When her best friend came to town, we snuck a few minutes to talk about it (just in case Heather had said anything like, "I totally wouldn't marry Chris if he asked me!"). Then her mom and grandfather came for Thanksgiving, and somehow I managed to find the opportunity (and the nerve) to ask them each for their blessing. In secret, I worked with Kevin at Meadows Fine Jewelry to get a ring designed. I started taking on freelance writing assignments hoping to help cushion that financial investment.

Things were coming together. The plan was to take her to Savannah for a night then surprise her with a train ride to Charleston. Then, on the last day back in Savannah, we'd go see the Flannery O'Connor house and maybe sit in the park next to it, chatting. At random, I'd drop to a knee and she'd get all excited and I'd be like the most romantic beau ever. Trophies would be carved in my image and presented in my honor.

Instead, I proposed after a half hour of sobbing and begging, both knees planted on the hardwoods of her home office floor.

Okay, it wasn't THAT bad, but... it wasn't quite Savannah either.

My problem is that I like to use diversionary tactics when I've got a secret. In my mind, the most logical thing in the whole world is for me to propose, and if you've met her or known me before and after her, you'd totally agree. I figured I needed to throw some curveballs and changeups—keep her off-balance so she wouldn't immediately suspect anything. I wanted it to be a big surprise.

(Note: No, I didn’t see that episode of Friends.)

In the months leading up to it, when she'd mention the future, I'd dodge it, saying, "I don't want to talk about that now." Or, I'd make comments like, "I don't know if I'll ever get married," or, "I don't believe in the legal institution of marriage; it's just a document that means two people can sue each other if things don't work out."

Naturally, she started to wonder how serious I was about her. And well, that took its toll. One Sunday—November 30, to be exact—we walked into her place, where I'd become a pretty constant presence. I asked if she minded if I watched the last 15 minutes of the Falcons game. She said she didn't but she sounded like she did. And we started talking.

All the confusion and uncertainty I planted about the path we were on came to the surface. I may have had a way out of proposing, but I really didn't want to smooth things over just to go on hurting her feelings for the next three weeks.

But I also didn't want to make her think I was proposing to her to just shut her up. In the nanoseconds that this was all running through my head, I knew I needed to convey that this proposal had been on my mind for a while.

So I said, "You know that trip to Savannah we're taking in a few weeks?"

She nodded.

"Well, I planned to propose to you there."

Silence.

And then it dawned on me that I didn't say that right. I tried to fix it by telling her who all I'd talked to, that I'd gotten her grandfather's blessing and mother's blessing. But what she heard was, "You ruined the surprise."

She looked so shocked, sad and broken that I panicked thinking that I'd just lost her. I started groveling. Over the next ten minutes, I was more honest with her than I've ever been about anything else in my life.

Eventually it worked. I asked and she said yes and we spent the rest of the evening in a silly stupor. The next day we were both back at work, albeit a little giddier than normal.

That wore off as the daily grind wore on, which was one reason I had hoped to wait until the beginning of Christmas break. Plus, I didn't have the ring yet.

The night I got the ring from Kevin, I had to drive to Augusta with my brother because he needed help moving to Columbus. The two of us loaded a 24-foot U-Haul trailer with 6,500 lbs of stuff (he weighed it before and after) and then I drove back to Macon.

I showered at my apartment to surprise her with my cleanliness. After hanging out for a minute, we went for a walk—to see the Christmas lights, I said.

I wanted to propose on Magnolia Street in front of the house where we met but I parked too far away and it was too cold to logically make the trek. I figured I could propose in front of one of the magnificently lit mansions on College Street, but then two youts shrouded in hoodies walked up and I decided to keep the bling in my pocket.

Finally we got to the top of Coleman Hill, overlooking the city of Macon in all its holiday splendor. What better place to propose? Except there were several cars parked up there, each with windows fogged by couples making out inside.

Just before we got in the car and pulled away, I asked her how much she loved me, and she spread her arms, affecting the accent of a very large character in Monty Python's Meaning of Life. That wasn't exactly what I was looking for, but it was perfect still. And I dropped to a knee and asked if she loved me enough to marry me.

Her face shook with joy, the way my hands shook with anxiety as if I didn't know what she was going to say. It was a lot more like the moment I'd imagined we'd have. And somehow better too.

In October, I'm getting married to the most awesome woman ever. It'll be in Las Vegas, but not on The Strip and Elvis won't be there either. When we get back, there will be a massive celebration in Macon. In other words, my 2009 will be great no matter what.