His proposal came in the middle of a job interview.
I had just returned from London and Jon wanted me to move into the boarding school where he worked and lived. The school principal agreed—on one condition. He was a tall man, and he spread his long arms out like wings to make his point as the verdict was delivered. “I’d love to have you here,” he told me, “but you can’t live in sin. I’ll give you four weeks to get married.”
“I think not”, I sniffed, not about to forfeit our wedding day for a quick, drive-by affair.
“Sure, see you in a month.” said the voice beside me.
“Is that a proposal?” I stammered, incredulous.
“Absolutely.” Jon declared.
We were married on a little clifftop overlooking the ocean. It was romantic, but this usually-Savvy Girl hadn’t considered the wind factor: my hair looked like Marge Simpson’s, a cylinder of locks billowing above me. Oh well. I wore something tight and black, at the groom’s request (should I have expected anything different from the Y chromosome?).
Never ones to do things the conventional way, the church wedding came a year later. And it went without a hitch. Mostly. More nervous than I realized, I looked lovingly into Jon’s eyes and declared, “I, Alicia, take you, Father Patrick…” Jon was stunned, but graciously laughed it off. The priest said it was the best offer he’d had in a while: I would hope so!
How did your proposal go? Or how would you like it to unfold?
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