There’s a difference between being with the right person and just being with someone, and it doesn’t take a sparkly diamond to make that known. (Not that it hurts anything. Seriously.)
I’m getting ahead of myself, though. For those of you who missed the post, here’s the abbreviated tale of our fateful meeting: during the second semester of my freshman year of college, I made the decision to take some time off of school and get myself sane (that’s another story), but my father made me get a job. So, your little Denim Debutante began hosting at Bennigan’s.
Talk about a terrible job. It paid sort of well and got me out of the house (plus, I met some amazing friends that I keep in touch with still), but even now, I wince at the slightest whiff of super greasy food.
There is, however, one day when working at Bennigan’s means big tips and bigger emotional scarring. Enter: St. Patrick’s Day.
Little 18-year-old JP was doing all the fun hosting bits (sadly, too close to the bar) and got smacked in the butt one too many times by drunk senior citizens. Frustrated (and a little uncomfortable… I’ve never gotten used to being hit on), I went up to the host stand and said, “God, I could deal with this a whole lot better if I just had a drink.”
C., my Knight in Inebriated Armor, then whispered to me, “I have some SoCo in my car.”
The rest, my dear readers, is history. (Or, rather, the present.)
Let’s fast forward to this past Tuesday.
For C. and I, Valentine’s Day is somewhat without ritual; if it landed on a weekend, either he or I would visit and spend it alone, together. As long as we’re together, we’re usually good. This year, as luck (and another move) would have it, we were without a need for travel plans.
He made dinner (a lovely gift within itself!) – marinated halibut with mango salsa and coconut rice. And he brought home flowers.
I’d spent the evening bragging about my unbeatable gift (a book of boudoir pictures I’d had taken for him) and felt confident. Odds were that I’d get perfume or an equally lovely-but-standard present.
We barely finished eating and I, being dreadfully impatient, ran to get his gift. I gave myself an invisible high five for being the best gift giver award right as he rose and told me to close my eyes.
I heard him shift a few things (the laundry hamper by my feet), open the coat closet to retrieve his gift, then walk toward me.
“You can open them now.”
What I wouldn’t give for a picture of him there, on one knee. He told me how he had loved me every day for the past seven years. That I’m the only one for him. His one true love. And then, he asked.
We cried as I said yes.
We’re not going to be running down the aisle any time too soon – after all, we’ve never been known for punctuality. And while I could not have asked for a more beautiful ring (seriously. You can see it here. It’s freaking amazing.), what matters most is that I have the most wonderful person who wants to spend the rest of his life with me (and, of course, I with him).
I’ll be sharing pictures when they get taken – both of the engagement and beyond – because what kind of blogger would I be if I deprived you of that? A crappy one, that’s what.
(PS: I’ll be keeping these posts very sporadic, but I wanted to share something: (hopefully) my dress. That would be my Grandmother – her dress. Perfect, don’t you think?)