Well it's finally over.  (My life that is.) (HAHAHA! OMG! LOL!  Get it? You know, because I'm married that means my life is over?!?!?)

I'd heard stories of brides getting depressed when they return home from their honeymoons because the anticipation of their dream day is past and "real life" just isn't quite as appetizing.  A few of the "Wedding People" I've come in contact with while writing this story even suggested that it would happen to me.

And they were right.

It has taken a couple weeks longer than I intended to write the final chapter. I'm just too broken up about the fact that I'll never again be copied on emails chains where four women debate the merits of type-fonts that from my view are exactly the same.

The truth is that I'm relieved.  I feel like a weight has been taken off my shoulders.  Unfortunately, that weight has been repositioned to my left ring finger.

Why don't they tell you how miserable, painful, inconvenient, unnatural and generally hellish it is to wear a wedding ring? (Or any ring for that matter. I can't think thumb rings are all that comfortable--but when something looks that awesome, you've just got to go with it...)  The whole physics of it are completely stupid. "Hey--I've got an idea: Men already hate the idea of marriage, so let's take the most touch-sensitive piece of their body and wrap it in--get this--METAL!?!?" The only thing more-unpleasant would be if say...you had to wear a piece of hard-plastic on your crotch in Little League...

And what's with this new trend of guys sporting these ultra-thick, wrist-watch-width rings that look more like hubcaps than signs of eternal devotion?  Guys--you know that successful and somewhat-stylish 45-55 year-old guy in your office who seems to have everything in his life together but is burdened by his gaudy, gem-stoned, gold wedding band from 1979?  His ring looks better than yours!

Beyond the pure misery that is the wedding band, I'm enjoying marriage quite a bit.  I promised not to reveal anything about the honeymoon, except to say that the waterslide at our hotel on a scale from one to Patrick Swayze in Road House would rank as about a 9.6.  And despite the shock of re-entering society and some inherent disagreements about when Christmas decorations should be put up (I voted we decorated prior to the October 27 wedding) we're getting along fine.



It's a growing cliche for people to say that their wedding was "a blur", but I've found that cliches, like stereotypes, exist because they're at least partially true. (And don't argue with the latter. There was one passable male dancer at our wedding and it happened to be the only person that was A) gay and B) black.  Case and FAAAAAAAAAAAAAABULOUS point.)

I have no doubt that seeing the pictures will bring back some memories, but even three weeks after the wedding, it remains a series of snapshots of what I'd say was undoubtedly the greatest night of my life if I could only recall where I was and what I was doing.
Despite that, this has been an incredible learning process, so I'll attempt to offer some guidance to the poor souls who follow my path toward an inevitable divorce that stems from an argument over the superiority of jam over jelly.

There were many things I could have included, but here are the ten things I learned along the way that your soon-to-be-wife might not find in a bridal magazine:

1.  Your Opinion Doesn't Count
I'm not saying that it doesn't matter. It just doesn't count.
In many cases, you'll be the first person consulted for every decision, but when it comes time to tally votes, Your Opinion Doesn't Count.
And rightfully so.
You have horrible taste and you really don't care, so why are you getting so bent out of shape about an appetizer that you can't pronounce?  You'd eat kibble if they put a toothpick in it.

2.  Play Project Manager
Because your opinion doesn't count, you need to find another way to contribute.  So take on the role of a project manager, ensuring that everything falls within Scope, Schedule and Budget.
I mean--you're going to fail. Trying to get a woman and her mother to color within any of those lines would take an act of piety that would make Moses blush--but you're going to get a tremendous amount of points for being involved without crushing your fiancee's (sometimes moronic) dreams.

3.  When in Doubt, Don't Send an Email
This is probably a great lesson for life, but because every decision in this process is so emotional for your better half, that everything is amplified.  If you write something in text and ask yourself, "Is she going to understand what I'm getting at?" do not press "Send." 
Just pick up the phone.
Or better yet, wait until you see her that night.
Trust me.
(And yes, my sarcasm went over really well throughout the process. Particularly when the host hotel asked by how many rooms we'd like to expand our room block and I responded, "I don't know...300?")

4.  Don't Let an Idiot Plan Your Bachelor Party
I wrote about the Dos and Don'ts at length, but this one is pretty easy.  Imagine your Best Man in your mind.  Ask yourself, "Would he attempt to rollerskate down the chute of a cement truck to impress a woman he's never met?"  If the answer is "Yes," politely ask one of your other friends to do the planning.
I'm all for inviting idiots to your bachelor party--they provide endless entertainment--but under no circumstance should they hold the reins.

5.  Sacrifice for a Wedding Planner or Coordinator
We were incredibly lucky and had Melissa's parents give us the gift of covering virtually every cost for our wedding, but even if you're not picking up the check, there will inevitably be a conversation about budget.  I don't care if it means sacrificing those short ribs that you considered making love to during your food tasting--spend the money on a Planner or Coordinator. 
Ours was incredible. I realize that she was paid for her services, but I feel like we should be showering her with gifts.  Its to the point that I kind of want her to be our friend (even though we could never invite her places because we'd be embarrassed by how disorganized our daily lives are.)
But I promise you--on eyeballs of my unborn children--that whatever your Coordinator costs, she is worth it. If not for the visible "doing" on the day of and preceding the wedding, for the stress she removes from your bride's shoulders (and therefore YOUR shoulders!) 

I wonder if Heather would coordinate the our next Saturday morning trip to "run a few errands". She could totally get us through everything in time for me to take a nap...

6.  Avoid All Things Trendy
Or gimmicky.
Or even funny.
You know how you thought it would be awesome for your groomsmen to all put on baseball caps halfway through the ceremony?
That two seconds of "awesome" will be followed by 40 years of crippling regret. 
You know how you're really into some song that came out a month ago?
Don't make it your first dance.
You know how a member of the cast of an internationally-loved television show volunteered to sing at your wedding?
Wait...that happened to us.  And we did it.  And it was awesome.

(I'll pause for a second to allow you to soak in what you just read and let your mind shift to the conclusion that this anonymous writer that you've been reading for the past 25,000 words is even cooler than you'd thought and actually has world class street cred.)

Now let's move on...

7.  You Register at Home. Not at the Store.
You should certainly go to the store and take every advantage of firing the registry gun in embarrassingly-dramatic fashion. (My personal favorite is singing Bryan Adams, "Everything I Do I Do it For You"  and then firing the gun like a bow and arrow.)  (At least two people understand that joke.)

But the real registering should be done at home.

Walk around your house.

What do you need?
Register for it.

What do you want?
Register for it.

What is old and needs replacing?
Register for it.

If you walk around a store, everything is going to look good.  Those $11/hour summer-hires are wickedly enticing with their displays and creative lighting.  And if you make all of the decisions there, you'll end up with things that you don't want or need.  Like...I don't know...maybe...

ELEVEN ****ING VASES!

8.  Make Sure Your DJ Knows the Word "NO!"
We interviewed three DJs. All were over the phone (as we were getting married out-of-state) but we both gravitated toward the only one of the three that definitively told us "No."
He was really nice about it and didn't make us feel bad, but at some point he stopped us in our rants and said, "Look--this is your event. I'm going to do it the way you want me to.  But you're getting married once. I literally do this 75 times a year.  I know what I'm doing and I'm not going to screw it up.  If you have songs you don't want me to play, that helps.  But of the ones you want me to play, beyond your first dance, if it kills the dance floor, I'm going to kill the song.  You're not going to remember that I didn't play a certain song--but you will remember if nobody is dancing."
And to no surprise, he was an absolute professional.

I had my most-music-critical friends coming up to me and telling me that they'd never heard wedding music that good.  I couldn't take credit for it, because we only requested two songs.
There was one couple that didn't like his music and were really vocal about it. The woman went up to him and laid into him for his musical selections. (Bear in mind--there were fifty people dancing for the two hours preceding this ridiculous exchange.)  I saw what was happening and walked over.  She was walking away as I got there and the DJ looked at me and said plainly, "Oh don't worry--I'm not going to listen to a word she says."  It was magical.

9.  Do the Seating Chart
I know I made a lot of jokes about it, but as we were making our rounds, thanking everyone for attending, I knew every single person's name.  Melissa was asking for help the entire time, but I was greeting relatives of hers I'd never seen before as though I'd known them since Will Smith was just a rapper.  It was like I had The Force.  It was that scene in Star Wars where Luke is wearing the blinder-helmet and blocking all of the laser-beams with his light saber.

Or not at all, but still awesome.

10.  Find a Release
Getting married is stressful for men.  It's not the same as it is for women.  They have to worry about planning a wedding---all we have to do is worry about planning a life.
First you have to deal with the emotional element.  Our whole lives to that point are spent pretending that we're hunters, just looking for our next prey.  Even proposing has an element of conquering to it, but once that hysteria settles, we have to find a way to present ourselves as a loyal, committed, loving husband. It's not an easy transition for everyone.
Add to that the fact that--in many cases--we now have to provide for a family. Things like life insurance, mortgages, taking on our spouse's college debts and everything else kind of conglomerate into a soup of peril that can keep even the most-medicated among us up at night.

So my suggestion is that you find a way to let go what's on your mind.  For some it is exercise. Others it is music.  For me it was writing this story.  (For the record--I do not suggest writing a blog that you intend on turning into a book about your wedding. That idea has been done. It wasn't done well or with any particular gusto, but it was done and you need to find your own idea.) (No seriously. Now you're just being mean.) 

Whatever it is, you need to find an avenue to channel the stress of a woman you were pretty sure you loved at some point screaming at you because you licked the envelopes to your Save the Dates without her being there to watch. 


Actually, screw it.  Don't listen to anything I wrote here.  Just buy yourself some scotch.

And live happily ever after.








THE END


This blog WAS my voice in the wedding-planning process. I've enjoyed every second of writing it and couldn't have done it without the support of a lot of important people.  
First and foremost, Melissa.  Crazy as it sounds, many girls wouldn't have enjoyed their fiance writing a tell-all story of their engagement, particularly one that paints her as an evil, gin-chugging devil-woman.  Fortunately--mine didn't portray you as such.  You're an incredible sport and a great wife.
(So far...)

Second to my family (and my NEW family.)  A lot of people have and will read this and I'm sure it has come as a source of embarrassment and confusion.  You're all saints for putting up with it.

My friend Anne has been encouraging me to write for the better part of a decade. I realized just before I proposed that I finally had a topic that I could stick with.  To no surprise, she was there the entire way, telling me when I was funny and when I was horrendously unfunny.  

To that point my friend Bill--who has been my sounding-board for every joke I've written since I was 18--was probably the least-helpful person in this process. Every time I'd send him a text saying, "is this funny?", he'd respond with "Yes" and then offer three ways to make it exponentially more-offensive.  Future editor--any time you see something in the text that is far too vile for print, just rest assured that Bill inspired it.

While I avoided my favorite writers during this process to ensure that my voice was mine own, my basis for opinion remains eternally influenced by the two finest sports talk radio hosts in the country, Dan Patrick and Mitch Levy.  My passion bucket overflows for both of you.

I wrote a chapter dedicated to the "Wedding People" that found me through this process.  There were thousands of you that I interacted with at some point, and I'm sure I'm forgetting someone, but three did more to advance me in my writing than any others. Cole, Chris and Mindy--without you obnoxiously blasting my rants to the world, I wouldn't have reached as many helpless souls as I did.  As for the rest of you--you know who you are, and I genuinely appreciate every one of you and hope that we never meet, as it will undoubtedly ruin the glowing impressions you've made to this point.

And finally to my readers...
After the first couple of chapters I put up on the web in blog-form, I took offense that people weren't reading all of them. Then I realized that I read about 500 words a day on the web, and most are in two-sentence chunks. Sitting down and reading a weekly or bi-weekly post about a WEDDING...from a DUDE...had to be one of the more-miserable experiences of all of your lives.  Thanks to anyone who read and eternal thanks to those that gave their feedback (even if I knew you were lying about how much you enjoyed it.)  At no point in my life have I felt so flattered as during the process of this wedding, and each of you reading my work ranks near the top of that list.  (Notice I said "near".  Melissa marrying me is secretly #2 behind you guys reading, but if I write that, she'll get ticked and go back to taping General Hospital in high definition instead of regular definition, therefore eating up our entire DVR storage...) 

But thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thanks to every single one of you.  (Even you.)

Twice this week I've been surprised with the news that my close friends are having kids.

Well.  To be precise.  They aren't having kids. Their wives are having kids.
______________________________________________________________________________
Sidebar:
Time to eliminate two and a half ridiculous practices while I've raised the subject.

1. "WE" are not pregnant. "SHE" is pregnant.  "WE" can drink a gallon of scotch while stuffing our faces with a platter of seafood and "WE" will be just fine...well...unless "SHE" kills you for it.

2. Unless the "baby-alert" calls are from my brother or my wife's sister, I am not going to be an "uncle".  The widespread use of "uncle" and "aunt" as a contrived nickname is so overblown that it has lost any and all meaning.
And beyond that, it is downright baffling for a child who is trying to learn their first words.  "Okay...Mom and Dad's brothers and sisters are my aunts and uncles....but so is this guy Steve who sleeps on our couch and smells like the recycling bin.  Are all adults my aunts and uncles?  Does that mean that the milkman is my uncle? Oh nevermind...he's my father..."
And to go on an even more ridiculous rant, how about these people that introduce you to their kids with a title attached to your first name?  "This is Mr. Jeff!  This is Ms. Michelle!"  What is that? What are we, camp counselors?  When I was a kid, there were about three male adults I could call by their first name (and zero female!), and I did, without a Mr. or Mrs. attached to it.  Every other person was Mr./Mrs. and their LAST name...you know, how it is supposed to be?
Mr. Jeff and Ms. Michelle is not polite. It is stupid.

______________________________________________________________________________

Okay....and I'm back!

Did you miss me?
Back to babies.

I'm just shy of 31. I'm at a point where these types of phone calls aren't necessarily commonplace, but are by no means shocking.  Melissa and I were looking at the guestlist to our wedding and there could literally be 20 women on the invite list who are nursing at our wedding.  (That horrendous image will leave me about 3 minutes before I die on November 2, 2088.)  Biologically, it is time to start receiving these calls.
And in the past, I've always been excited to hear baby news.  Who cares if I'll never see my friends again, I'm really happy for them, and in a totally non-creepy way, I love kids.  They're fun.  And way more interesting than their parents! 

But these two were different.  Why?  Because they were the first baby-alerts since Melissa and I got engaged.

Before, I could celebrate. 

Now I realize that I'm only a couple of years away of being in charge of another human life; a task that I'm by no means prepared for. There are literally hundreds of reasons that I'm in no way equipped for fatherhood right now.  I offer you a few:

-I have some things that I'm not ready to baby-proof.  Like my six-inch-plastic-Tiger-Woods-figurine-I-found-at-TJ-Maxx-after-Tiger's-meltdown-and-figured-it-was-the-last-Tiger-Woods-toy-that-would-ever-be-produced-and-therefore-bought-and-now-display-on-the-mantle-as-an-amazing-half-ironic-half-awesome-piece-of-art.  It is very fragile!

-Do you realize how expensive babies are?  To hell with the ridiculousness of wedding expenses, babies make them look like a bargain! Want proof?? Go to Baby Gap.  Look at their sizes. You have to buy the little poop-machines a new wardrobe every fifteen minutes or they will outgrow them! 

-I really like to sleep.  And am terrible at it.  You know the sound of an insect landing on a pillow three rooms away? No? I do. And it wakes me up.  Imagine how terrible a screaming baby is going to be--particularly when absent-minded parents choose to amplify that horrendous noise with a bedside baby monitor!

-You know when you get a blister on your foot and it is full of fluid and you just kind of push on it because it feels cool and you want to see what happens?  I sincerely hope that soft-spots don't feel the same way.

-Twins are everywhere these days.  Is this really what we need: parents who can't handle one child having to learn to handle two?  That's God's equivalent of the dad who finds out his kid is smoking and makes him smoke an entire carton until he throws up.
(Not to mention that twins lead to bunkbeds. And do I really need another means to bump my enormous head on things?)

-What if he looks like me?  I'd never forgive myself!

-And what if he is a she? God help us...


But it could be worse.  We could be talking about getting a dog...

(Please address your dog-loving hatemail to: agroomsdiary@gmail.com Thank you!)

This blog is my voice in the wedding process. If any of you have questions for a male with an opinion, please don't hesitate to ask.

It has been a while since I’ve written, but the fact is that this journal is supposed to be about a man’s thoughts on the process of getting married and the simple fact is that nothing is happening right now.

We’ve made a few appointments to view some sites--but until that happens, there really isn’t to much to complain about.

But here are a few things I have managed to learn about weddings over the past few weeks:

-Dresses should be rented. I know this isn't a new statement but it is worth reiterating.  Men can and will wear tuxes again. I mean--not often--but it is a possibility. And we still rent.  There is a zero percent chance that the girl will wear that dress again, unless she happens to earn a role in a Paul Rudd movie.

-Still not entirely certain that my mom believes me that I'm straight. She adores my fiancee, but occasionally gives me a look that says, "Oh right, I forgot...you're 'IN LOVE' with her! hehe...its okay sweetie, I know you like dudes."

-Someone told us not to skimp on food, as people associate chicken with "cheap." What if we made our vows all about how much we like chicken? Maybe they'd associate chicken with "two people who really like chicken."

-Men could not give one steaming pile of crap about the colors of a wedding, provided they don't look gay.  (And girls: pink and purple can be done properly if you decided what your wedding should look like when you were eight.  I will not wear a pink suit, but a pink tie is fine provided I don’t have a mustache or a sequined tuxedo.)

-Never abbreviate "Save The Date". Ever.  Women, you don't want your future husband to see your to-do list that reads, "Drop-off Dry Cleaning, Get Haircut, Pick-up a Gallon of Milk, Check on STDs."

-I have an enormous invite list for this wedding. ENORMOUS.  And I’m not inviting a ton of family. It doesn’t mean I have a decision-making problem, it means that I am beloved to Pope-levels.  I'm looking forward to the day I have to axe a bunch of the people on the list. I'm going to invite all of my groomsmen over and do an NCAA Basketball Selection Show, except with wedding invites. "And on the strength of a few key late-season wins, the #13 seed in the West is Peter."  "Shame that Aunt Lorraine didn't make the field. A strong season, but found herself on the wrong side of The Bubble."

And most importantly:

-A wedding has nothing to do with a marriage. I barely see how the two are related anymore.   One is about eternal devotion and the strength we gain in submitting our lives to another.  The other is about melon wrapped in prosciutto. 

A wedding is a complete ME!ME!ME! fiasco that is supposed to mark the beginning of a marriage but is actually just a strange backlash against all of your friends that made you go to their ME!ME!ME! parties and the taunting of the lonely people who haven't had a ME!ME!ME! party of their own.

 

Now that's not to say that we've learned from all of this and are going to have a simple ceremony.  I'm just telling you that I'm aware of how ridiculous it is. 

We’re five days into this and I’m considering either eloping or sticking my head in the oven.

I think the next time I tell the story of how I proposed, I’m going to slit my wrists with a battle-axe.  I actually resent the happiest moment of my life. Is that wrong?

And as if hearing the story of the proposal isn't enough, people are presumptuous enough to want to know when and where we're getting married!  You know what??? SO DO I! 

Why do the people that are going to be eternally designated to the B-list for wedding invitations seem to be the ones who are most curious as to when it will take place and where?  They seem to care more than I do.

The average call goes something like this:

Them: "HEY MAN! CONGRATS!"

Me: "Thank you."

Them: "I (and a date!) deserve to have 16 drinks on your future-wife’s parents’ and sneak into every picture because of this anecdote about the two of us from 8 years ago...that I’m about to tell you...that wasn’t so much meaningful as it was tedious. … … … Man we couldn’t be happier for you.  Is there anything we can do?"

Of course I’m paraphrasing.  But what if we did ask them to do something? 

"You know--now that you mention it--we're moving this weekend and I could really use a hand."
"Actually, you could do something.  Would you mind learning the entire Swedish language? We have some cousins coming in for the wedding and want them to feel comfortable."
"Yes, there is something you can do.  Could you come by once an hour for the rest of my life and tell me what time it is? I really don't like using clocks."
"That's so nice of you.  Would you mind handing out programs and building a floating church for us to get married in?"
"Oh yeah, that would be great. Could you write 2,000 words on how Google Plus works?" 

I woke up this morning with a fiancee.  It’s kind of like waking up with a sore throat where it is on your mind the entire night, but you’re not really sure if it is true until you get out of bed.
 

(Though--I don’t think I could get that ring away from her with a shotgun, much less by gargling salt-water.)

Here are the highlights:

9:58 AM

We arrive at a friend’s place, as he’s moving to San Francisco and wants to rent out his condo.  Nice place and Melissa likes it. That’s good...we can check that off the to-do list.

(Why am I mentioning this? You’ll see.)

1:11 PM

The marine layer hasn’t lifted and we’ve pretty well decided that we’re going to waste a summer day indoors, watching TNT movies.  Note to guys: Don’t watch "Definitely, Maybe" on the day you’re going to propose. (Who am I kidding? It isn’t appropriate on the day your going to shoot up a Kinkos either...but a movie where a guy gets rejected on two proposals is bad for your mojo.)

3:42 PM

The weather has broken a bit. We have a 6 PM reservation (because we’re 147 years old!) so she decides that we should go for a walk...

3:53 PM

Have I mentioned how well Melissa and I get along? It’s really amazing. I was thinking about it two days previous thinking, "With the exception of when she had oral surgery and couldn’t eat for four days, we’ve never once had a disagreement where she cried." Normally it is 2-3 dates before I make a girl cry. Here we are, a year to the day and not a tear.

Or so I thought.

She laid one of the most divinely serendipitous guilt-trips in the history of relationships on me.  Gave me the "I-just-signed-another-12-month-lease. I’m-not-saying-we-have-to-get-married-right-away...I’m-not-even-saying-we-have-to-move-in-right-away...but-you-didn’t-even-make-mention-of-it. I-need-you-to-start-thinking-about-that...because-if-this-lease-ends-and-we’re-still-not-on-that-track, that’s-probably-the-end-of-the-track."

JACKPOT!

You’ve heard of the term "milking"? I squeezed every drop out of this metaphorical udder.

A few of my favorite quotes:

"I’m getting there...I mean--that’s where I want to be--I’m just not there yet."

"I don’t want to be pressured."

and the cous de gras:

"What if we got a storage unit together?"

4:58 PM

Walk ends and I shower up for dinner.  I put on a pair of cargo shorts because I figure that that is the only way to get the ring around without her noticing.

"What are you going to sneak out with some dinner rolls? Change."

I almost retorted before realizing that she doesn’t know that I have a platinum, circular, get-out-of-anything-bad-I’ve-ever-done in my pocket.

So I change.

And bring a coat.

(The coat has a ring in it.)

(An engagement ring.)

(The engagement ring I’m going to propose with.)

7:10 PM

We’ve finished an unsurprisingly fantastic dinner at the absolutely delicious yet horrendously overpriced restaurant of my choosing and are milling post-dinner options.  I suggest, "What if we went down to the bench where we had our first kiss and watch the sunset?" to which she responds, "It’s 7:10. We’d just be watching the sun. Unless you want to sit there for two hours! AND THAT’S NOT HAPPENING!"  

Awesome.

Meanwhile, I’d brought Melissa’s favorite wine to dinner and paid the corkage fee, but there was about a glass left. We were both half-full, so when the waitress inquired whether or not we’d be having dessert, the following exchange occurs:

Me: "No, I actually baked" (key lime pie--Melissa’s favorite) "so we’ll be eating dessert at home. If you just want to finish off that wine we’ll just take the check" as I motion to our two half-full glasses.

Waitress: "Well thank you, Rose is one of my favorites."  About three beats... "Oh...you didn’t mean for me, did you?"

I’m quite certain you had to be there to realize precisely how out of line she was...but as you’ll read, it’s likely the only charming moment of our engagement (or our entire wedding-planning-process) so I’m including it.

7:38 PM

Having arrived at the bench where we first kissed, which is a lovely, lakeside bench that looks out over Lake Washington and the Seattle skyline, I realize that it is Seafair (Seattle’s fleet-week) and there are roughly 20,000 drunk boaters trying to get their parents’ boats onto a trailer within 30’ of the spot I’d decided to propose.  Now I’m not one for sentiment, but the idea of my proposal being drowned out by a guy yelling, "Timbo! You get those empties out of the boat? My dad’s gonna be pissed!" just doesn’t strike me as a moment to remember.

7:49 PM

Thinking quickly, I realize that about 100 yards away, there is a quiet, secluded hill in a park with a similar view...we’re headed that way.

7:51 PM

Apparently an ugly family knows of the hill. And has invited all of their relatives for a picnic.

8:07 PM

We drove about two miles north to a less-populated park along the lake that we go to frequently on summer days to watch first-time mothers’ breasts fall out of their hopelessly small bathing suits and listen to pre-diabetic children scream at their 2nd-generation, illegitimate hispanic fathers for not buying them a snowcone. (They are in fact legitimately hispanic. Their birth has not been legitimized via marriage. Try to keep up.)

Truth be told, it is a great viewpoint for a sunset. And voila! There are 5 open benches.

Exhale.

I’m going to pee...we’ll reconvene shortly.

8:12 PM

It was a long pee. Sue me.

8:13 PM

I walk out of the restroom expecting to see Melissa outside the door or seated on one of the five wide-open benches on the shoreline.

But she’s not there.

She’s on the dock.

That’s a problem.

Why?

Well if a dock were over land, it would be called a "porch", and I’d be fine with it.  But unfortunately, they’re over water, and shaky-handed balding men after 3 glasses of pink girl wine are known for dropping expensive rings into water.

8:32 PM

She thinks I’m insane, but I’ve lured her to the shore.  She probably thinks that I really like the jacket I’m carrying at my side with the stranglehold of a boa constrictor.

8:49 PM

Having waited for a very loud, very fat 14-year-old girl to finish chasing around the kids that hangout with her now (but will avoid her like the Ebola Virus when they start high school in a month) to clear out, everything kind of went blank.

I wasn’t nervous.

I didn’t tremble.

I just dropped to a knee and said...

Well neither of us has any idea what I said.  (And I’m not holding out, I genuinely don’t remember. I think it was something about "like a dinosaur to a tar pit, I’m drawn to you"...but about a ten minute period is completely blank.)

Though she did cry. And laugh. And there was a snort or two...which I’m totally into.

Four days ago, I successfully waited for and then completed what I (at the time) considered the most-stressful portion of the engagement process:

I plucked all of my nosehair.

And then I asked her parents for permission.

I can’t say that it went as designed.

I picked that particular day because Melissa works on Sundays and it was one of the rare weekends that the sister (who lives in Los Angeles) was in town.  Seeing as how I go home to my parents’ house (which is about ¼ mile of private road away from her parents’) every Sunday, I figured that I could quite easily "just swing by" and smoothly ask her entire family for their permission.

Turns out they made plans without my permission.

Finding out that I had about a 20-minute window where they were a) dressed and b) still home, I rushed over there.  

No stress to this point.

But about half way through this 80-second drive, I got a feeling in my stomach that felt like a cross between nerves and instantaneous diarrhea.

Hobbling to their front door, I pulled the sister outside and showed her the ring.  I think I accidentally proposed to her. But she's alright.  So it isn't a complete loss...

So she leads me into the house. 
They walk around the corner, and I'm trembling like a gummy bear on a paint-shaker and just blurt out "I’m here to ask your permission to marry Melissa!"


This is the first step of what I hope will be the story of our wedding. I say "hope" because there's always an outside shot that he says no. 
Didn't see that one coming, did you?  That's right, Melissa is a dude.  A big, 6'4", 260 pound dude. He looks like the guy in the Brawny ads.

That's a lie. Melissa is 6'2", tops.

　

So I've got permission, but now I've got to propose.  And once again, a well-intentioned, well-thought-out plan goes tragically awry...

I told her parents the same thing I told my own: that my plan was to propose about six weeks from that day, on a trip that I gave her for her birthday.  But after the pure trepidation I felt while asking permission, I’ve realized that going two days into a vacation with a ring in my bag is going to make the stress of the moment seem relatively minuscule.  

In an email exchange with her sister, I started brainstorming ideas only to realize that the only Friday or Saturday evening that we have available between now and October is Saturday night.  

That’s two days from now.

So here I sit, in an airport in Boston, having slept about 12 hours in three nights that stretched Seattle-New York-Boston and now I’m waiting to go back to Seattle and I’m realizing that my nerves have created only one certainty about my upcoming flight:

I am going to vomit a vomit so violent that Jesus will refuse to hold my hair as I do so.

God help us...