On March 16, 2014, the day after my parents' 45th wedding anniversary, my partner asked me to marry him. As I opened the fridge in my parents' kitchen, I noticed a clear box that held a bride and groom origami. The box was covered in flowers and there was a gift inside the clear container. I had no idea what I was looking at. My partner and I had talked about getting married quite frequently and neither one of us had any doubt that it would happen. We chose what type of ring we wanted and the gem. We settled on a very simple band for the ring and chose a man-made diamond for the center. There it was, in front of me, the ring and the funky presentation of it all. I still had no clue what was going on until my partner got down on one knee. At that point I just started laughing and crying. Neither one of us is traditional so I couldn't figure out why he was on one knee.
The fact that we were surrounded by family and that the proposal took place in my parents' kitchen seemed absolutely perfect. This was the same kitchen where I would lie on the floor, moaning about how "sick" I was, in the hopes of being able to skip church. The same kitchen where I would throw myself on the ground and pretend to be a sizzling piece of bacon. The same kitchen where so many arguments, conversations, holidays and moments of life occurred. So much life took place in that one tiny room.
It's true that I was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and had no make-up on that day. It's also true that I was hungover from the night before and barely awake. But when I flip through the photo album of our engagement that my dad made for us, I couldn't be more convinced that everything unfolded the way it was supposed to.
Now, the actual planning of the wedding? That's another story.
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