Proposal Purgatory

I can't believe I'm here.

I never, in a million years, thought that I would be here.

Where is here, exactly? Here is that pocket of time between the discussion of an engagement ring and the proposal -where one receives said engagement ring. It's a waiting period. And at times the wait can be alternately frustrating and fantastic, crazy making and over-the-moon exciting, awful and awesome. I've been 'here' for eight months.

It was about eight months ago that my Dashing Litigator proposed...that we get a joint membership to Costco. With butterflies in my tummy and a smile that would not quit, I gleefully waited in line to get my picture taken - and moments later we were holding our brand new Costco Membership cards. We strolled the aisles, hand in hand, ooh-ing and aaah-ing at the marvels before us. Slowly our cart began to fill up with things like 'One Gallon of Basil Pesto', 'A 20 lb. block of Gouda', a '100 Pack of Paper Towel' and 'One Ton of Tylenol'. At one point we passed a cart that was loaded with three children of various ages, being pushed by two tired parents. "WOW!" my dashing litigator remarked, "You really CAN get everything at Costco!" Just then we turned a corner and found ourselves in the jewelry section. I stopped, with my hand on the cart and I swallowed hard. "Well, what have we here, Carrie? It looks like the jewelry section."

"Yup", I managed to say.

He turned to me. "You know...I realized that I have no idea what sort of ring you might like. What do you like, Carrie?"

And so began 'the ring talk', and the precise moment I entered Proposal Purgatory.

The thing was, I hadn't the faintest idea what sort of ring I liked. I realize that a lot of women know the answer to this question better than they know their social security number. They have known it since they were small. But while those girls played house and made brownies in their Easy-Bake Ovens, I was choreographing dance routines on our back deck, camping in our tree fort, writing plays and having big wheel races with my next door neighbor, Nick. (And I was far more interested in beating him on my bike than playing make believe that I was his wife. )

In fact, I can recall only one moment in my tender years where I actually considered the idea of an engagement ring. I was about 4 years old, and at that time I was prone to sucking on the middle and ring fingers of my left hand, as a means of comfort. Often, my prolonged biting and sucking left two baby teeth mark indentations on the top of my ring finger. One afternoon, as I was getting up from a nap, my mother took my left hand in hers, inspected my soggy and dented fingers and remarked, "You know, if you keep sucking and biting your fingers like this, they'll get so swollen that you'll never be able to wear a diamond ring."

I stopped sucking my fingers then and there. I don't think my toddler brain could comprehend the gravity of what my mother was telling me, but I knew one thing: if they were going to be passing out diamond rings, I didn't want to be left out on account of a couple of swollen fingers.

Looking back, I now see that I was far too hasty. If I had known that a good 28 years later, I'd still be waiting for a ring, I would've clamped my little mouth down on my hand and sucked away to my heart's content, diamond rings be damned.

Soon after we'd had 'the ring talk', I started looking online at different settings. And after perusing a few sites, I learned that I preferred white gold over platinum (It's shinier and cheaper, and if it gets dull, you just have it re-dipped - who knew?) and that I liked the Princess cut. I also looooooved the heirloom look.

As I hopped from one diamond site to the next, I grew more and more...obsessed. I became like a diamond drug addict, tingling and buzzing with each sparkly setting. I started printing out every fabulous ring I saw, making sure I wrote down a link to the website. This ring shopping thing was fun! I went to a local chain jewelry store to find out my ring size (6), and soon I had a good idea of what I liked.

One evening after my Dashing Litigator and I were lingering over a lovely dinner and bottle of wine, I pulled out my pretty pictures and promptly handed them over. His reaction? "Wow. Um...are you sure these are engagement rings?"

"YES." I said, suddenly becoming defensive. "They are engagement rings. These are vintage settings to give them sort of an heirloom look, okay? You asked me what I like and this is what I like!" I heard my voice. It was bordering on shrill. Suddenly I was reminded of an old neighbor of ours who's gold-digging daughter told her boyfriend she would accept nothing less than a 3 karat diamond engagement ring. From the way I was acting, I wasn't too far off. And afterall, it isn't about the ring...but what that ring means. He is declaring to the world that I am his and he is mine, and that is something quite special. Remembering all of this, I added, "Honey, I want you to know that I will be happy with whatever you pick out." And I punctuated this by wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing the top of his head.

And now I wait. This is a truly exquisite and beautiful time. I must relish the calm. I will (hopefully) never in my life be here again. At this moment I am (hopefully) on the brink of being forever bound to another. And once I (hopefully) shift out of this place, I will leave my single days behind. For good. And it truly is for good. For something better than good, really.

And so, as I sit in my purgatory - in (hopeful) anticipation, I will do my best to ignore the pesky mosquitoes that swarm around me, buzzing with their chorus of, "What is he waiting for?" *swat* "When are you getting engaged?" *swat* "So...no ring yet, huh?" *SWAT*

Instead I shall close my eyes to the din and with a serene smile remember the mantra that I used to say to myself when I was very single - in fact, it was written on a poster that hung in my teenage room - and seems quite apropos now:

Love understands, and therefore waits.

...and so I shall... and I'll resist the temptation to suck on my fingers...just in case.

So long, sad songs

I am folding laundry one hot and humid Saturday, listening to the radio to add some spice to this humdrum chore. My dashing litigator is out getting the car washed and making the weekly run to Trader Joe's, and Duncan is out on the balcony, keeping a watchful eye on a pair of grey squirrels who are flirting on top of the neighbor's fence.

I am just pulling a load of warm, dark clothes from the dryer, when I hear the beginnings of "I am so Ordinary" by Paula Cole. It is a song I haven't heard in ages. Instantly, I am back in French class, freshman year of college, crushing on Shawn Zimmerman - the blond haired blue-eyed hockey player from Canada. Totally adorable and totally taken. I used to play that song on repeat in my dorm room and sing along with my whole aching heart.

"I watched you lean across the table, I watched you whisper in her ear...and she is your holy Mary, and I am so ordinary...!"

A year later, I found myself crushing on someone new. My dance partner, Don. He was tall and handsome with curly black hair, hugely talented, straight - and, oh yes - impossibly taken. My soundtrack for this unrequited romance was set to the tune of "But Not For Me", as sung by Linda Ronstadt.

"...with love to lead the way, I've found more clouds of grey, than any Russian play..."

In high school, I was hugely infatuated with the Broadway musical Les Miserables, an epic three-hour-long homage to heartache. Eponine, the street rat who falls in love with the charming and oh-so-out-of-her-league Marius - was my heroine. I would close my bedroom door, turn off all the lights and belt "On My Own" to an audience of stuffed animals and glow in the dark sticker stars. "I love him, but only on my own." Oh, and that one was for Tom Hanton - the drum major and football player with Garth Brooks looks who played fast and loose with my young heart on more than one occasion. And when I was feeling particularly angry and jilted by these boys, I would drive around town in my red Ford Escort, windows down, permed curls flying, scream-singing "Precious Things" by Tori Amos.

"Those beautiful boys, those Christian boys...so you can make me come, that doesn't make you Jesus..."

But hidden in the melancholy of each melody, I found such delicious solace. This music lifted me, soothing my sad and longing heart. These women (for it was only the female vocalists who truly 'got me') had been there. It was as if they were saying, "Girlfriend, I know how you're feeling...so you just sing along and let it all out...that's right...good girl."

But these days (if you'll pardon the cliche), I'm singing a different tune.

I've found that I haven't had much need for those sad songs in nearly two years. These days, my life track sounds a bit more sunny.

As we make our Saturday breakfasts and he scrambles eggs, I nuzzle his neck and croon "Close to You" by the Carpenters. "Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?"

We take a road trip to St. Louis and Keith Urban's "Better Life" is our companion. "Someday baby, you and I are gonna be the ones...good luck's gonna shine..."

While driving to the beach, Duncan in the back, Luce sings, "Buy a Dog" and we smile at each other and squeeze hands. "So if you wanna try, we'll make it you and I. We'll never be alone, we'll buy a dog and bring him home..."

My mental mix tape is filled with saccharine ditties and Pollyanna pop. Life is sweet and the notes sound sweeter. I'm "Walking on Sunshine". I have a man who makes me feel like a "Natural Woman", and when I think about him, "I Touch Myself".

There was a time when I found happy love songs to be boring and blah. After all, it was far more tortuous and dramatic to be lovelorn. But since I have crossed over to the sunny side of the street, I now understand the giddy heart-zinging pleasure of a love song and its' ability to convey all those mushy emotions you are feeling, but perhaps can't adequately articulate. That is the reason I love musical theatre so much. Because there exist moments that are so powerful and filled with so much passion and feeling that words simply aren't enough. You gotta sing it.

But what of those old sad songs that I loved so well? Those 'been there' ballads that saw me through dateless Prom nights, un-returned phone calls, and the 'I just like you as a friend' blues? They'll still be there. But when I hear them today it's with a grateful ear. Remembering those bleak and lonely periods of my life only fills me with more gratitude and appreciation for what I have now.

And I have a lot. I have a love that I never knew existed. A level of comfort and intimacy so exquisitely beautiful that I am forever in awe that this is really happening. This is mine.

Quite simply, there aren't enough love songs in the world to convey what he means to me. But you better believe this reformed Pollyanna is going to listen to every damn one of them, complete with sickening hearts over my starry eyes and fluttery feet that won't touch the ground.