A Cup of Comfort for Couples (13 page)

“This is what you want to marry into?” I asked, only half kidding.

His eyes twinkled and crinkled again. “More than you can possibly know.”

By then, the kids were arguing over who was going to take the leftover bucket of popcorn into their bedroom, oblivious to us mumbling together on the floor.

“You're crazy,” I said under my breath, while the dog finally broke free from the bedroom and came in to fight for her share of the popcorn.

“About you,” Ryan said.

“Are you going to give me my ring?” I asked, while out of the corner of my eye I saw popcorn fly everywhere.

And so he did.

While you might not consider that to be the most romantic proposal of all time — given my napping, its premature ending, and all the commotion that ensued — it remains one of the most, if not
the
most, romantic nights of my life. Romance, I discovered, isn't in perfection. It's in knowing someone loves you enough to stand next to you in the imperfection of real life and smile when plans change and things go wrong. In that moment I realized that if this guy can handle the destruction of his perfect marriage proposal — with laughter, no less — chances are he might actually stick around through some of the tough stuff.

And so he has.

Actually, that wasn't the first time he'd proposed. He had asked me to marry him twice before. I hadn't said no the previous two times because I didn't love him. I did love him; I was certain of that. But I was having a hard time reconciling that inside myself. I'd been in relationships before where I had loved deeply, passionately. Unfortunately, I'd learned early on that love was not enough, that circumstances and differences could overshadow love. In each of those earlier relationships, I'd desperately wanted to believe that love would be enough, but in the end, I was always left with a lot of love and nothing tangible I could hold on to, nothing safe and secure to build a foundation or future upon.

When Ryan first approached me with a proposition of marriage, it was very businesslike. He had good insurance, a good job, financial security. I was broke, had health problems, and was floundering. Our life situations were too disparate; I feared that instead of him lifting me up, I would bring him down. Too many times I'd seen this happen, both in my own life and in others. So I refused his proposal.

Though I wouldn't have admitted it then, I was a little turned off at the lack of romance in his first proposal. Never mind that I had already set the tone by making sure he knew my mantra: love wasn't enough. In retrospect, I realize he was only trying to accommodate me and my beliefs, to give me more than just the love. When that didn't work, he took a different tack.

His second proposal came spontaneously after an intimate moment. He turned to me and said, “See, we're good together. You ought to marry me. Say yes. I've got the ring in my jacket, right over there. Come on. You know you want to.”

It made me laugh. But Ryan was serious, and when I stopped laughing, he asked me to marry him more officially. I wanted to leave him with hope, because I did love him very much. Instead of simply saying no, I told him I wasn't ready yet. He told me the ring would be in his pocket, because he knew I'd be ready soon. I was glad he wasn't ready to give up on me yet.

I felt bad for him. Love shouldn't be so hard. He shouldn't have had to work so hard to win me over.

But he did.

After Ryan proposed to me the third time, on a picnic blanket on the floor of my living room, it all came together: Yes, I was right, love wasn't enough. But love mixed with a willingness to work at it, to keep trying against all odds and hope — is that what it takes to have a happy, lasting marriage? Is that enough?

That night, I figured that if the man was willing to work that hard to win me over, he'd be even more willing to work hard to keep me. If Ryan was willing to see past naps during marriage proposals, spilled champagne, and popcorn arguments on the most romantic night of our lives, I figured there wasn't too much that would faze him. I also knew I was ready to make that same effort for him and for us, to make that same commitment to him.

After the popcorn was cleaned up, the kids were tucked into bed, and the dog was satiated on the cheese she managed to steal from the picnic basket while we dealt with the popcorn, I told him I would marry him on one condition.

“I've already promised to love you forever,” he said.

“And I'm glad for that,” I replied. “But that's not what I'm asking.”

He laughed when I told him I would marry him if he promised he would always laugh at spilled popcorn and continue to smile when I snored.

And so he has.

Of course, he recently purchased a heavy-duty vacuum cleaner and some state-of-the-art head-phones, but I'm sure that doesn't mean anything.

—
Michelle L. Devon

How the Funny Papers Rocked My World

Y
ears ago, when Ron and I had been dating several months and February neared, I gently mentioned Valentine's Day. He seemed rather foggy on the topic, so I offered him some assistance. “Shall we have a romantic evening together?” I asked. Of course, what I really meant was, Would you like to surprise me with a romantic evening? But I didn't know him well enough to be that bold.

We both wrote the date on our calendars. We planned to meet at Ron's house and then go to dinner.

I showed up with a gift and card for him inside my satchel, wondering if he remembered I liked daisies better than roses. I was curious about which restaurant he had selected for our romantic candlelight dinner.

“So how about a quick bite of sushi and a movie?” Ron asked, as I was wondering where he had hidden my flowers.

There are not many vegetarians who rate a sushi joint as one of their top romantic venues, but I figured Ron had something eclectic in mind. So I said, “Okaaay,” in a slow quiet way that might have warned the astute listener I was less than pleased. Still, I hoped a delightful surprise was nestled inside this rather mundane invitation.

At the restaurant, Ron did not notice my quietness. I knew he liked to save the best for last, so I decided to see what happened at the movie.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was so engrossed in the film that he didn't even hold my hand or put his arm around me. I bit my lip to keep from dissolving into disappointment.

“Do you know what day it is?” I asked Ron finally, as we walked into his house.

“Thursday,” he said, confidently.

With that answer, the tears I had been holding in flowed out. “It's Valentine's Day,” I sobbed. “We were supposed to have a romantic evening.”

“Why didn't you say something?” he asked.

“I did.”

“When?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Why didn't you remind me?” He looked sweet and concerned.

I could see he was not a thoughtless, rotten cad, but merely an untrained innocent who had not been edu- cated in the niceties of this holiday. I gave him his gift and his card, then I went home and finished my cry.

For the next couple of years, I gently mentioned the holiday to Ron in advance, suggesting things we might enjoy doing. We made our plans and enjoyed ourselves. But part of me still wanted to be surprised by romance on that one day.

Then Ron added “Cathy” to the comics he read daily. And Cathy added her boyfriend, then husband, Irving. Irving, like Ron, was clueless about Valentine's Day. Unlike me, Cathy minced no words in voicing her expectations and giving out instructions on romance and other topics.

“I am learning a lot from Cathy,” Ron said last January.

I nodded and figured he was learning what you say to a woman who has just tried on a zillion bathing suits and bought none. Cathy was great at that sort of gender-based advice.

Meanwhile, I let go of my expectations. I loved Ron; he loved me. I didn't even mention Valentine's Day. I knew we would spend that evening together and it would be enough for me.

“Honey, can you be available on the afternoon of February fourteenth?” Ron asked a week before the day.

“Yes,” I said. I had left my schedule flexible, just in case.

“Can you be available on the morning of February fifteenth?” Ron asked.

“What did you have in mind?”

“It's a surprise,” he said.

On February thirteenth, he said, “You'll need to pack a suitcase.”

I packed a suitcase and was filled with anticipation as we got into the car on the afternoon of February fourteenth. After some driving around, Ron pulled up at a hotel that was unusually elegant for us.

He had everything planned out, including champagne, a romantic dinner, and a stunning view of the city — all without having to go outside in the cold.

“Ron, how did you ever figure out such a delightful getaway?” I asked, as we sipped champagne late that night and watched the city lights.

“From reading ‘Cathy,'” he said. “She helped me figure out what you meant by a romantic evening.”

And so the comics enriched my relationship. Ron had done all the work, and I had merely let go and let Cathy.

—
Deborah Shouse

180 Seconds to a Lifetime

“W
hy are we here?” my friend Pam asked. We looked around the unfamiliar restaurant where we were waiting in line to attend a three-minute dating event in a closed-off room next to the bar.

“It'll be fine,” I assured her. “We'll meet guys our age who actually want to date, and we'll weed through them fast.”

“So, Miss Queen of Small Talk,” she quipped, “where do I start?”

“You could describe your underwear.”

A much younger, overdressed man was listening in and smiling too big. When our eyes met, he threw out his hand and introduced himself as Mark, not even pretending he hadn't heard me.

Oh, Doogie
, I thought to myself,
I was teaching
high school your freshman year
. “Hi, Mark,” I said, then lowered my voice to conspiratorial whisper. “I'm just kidding; we're not wearing any underwear.”

Modest Pam almost choked on the beer she'd just gulped. But she smiled, ready to play along with any joke.

Mark's grin grew as he took Pam's whole arm in his two hands. “I'm Mark,” he said, seeking a hand to shake.

Before Pam could answer or remove her arm, a tall man with unruly hair leaned into us.

“We're early?” he asked, sharing garlic. “There're so many men, no?”

We smiled and shrugged, realizing for the first time that we were outnumbered by the male species, at least at this spot in line. Soon men started asking us where we lived and what we did for fun, like they couldn't wait for the whole show to begin.

The man in front of me turned around and asked, “So what do you for a living?”

“I'm a teacher.”

“Ooooh, I went to school!”

“What a coincidence,” I said before realizing he was not joking and actually took pride in this connection.

I began to fear the night would be more interesting than worthwhile. Then I noticed him: straight, light-colored hair; steel-blue eyes; broad shoulders; cute; but probably younger than me. Actually, he noticed me first.

“You're from Naperville,” he addressed me. “I'm from Bolingbrook.” This established us as neighbors.

“I live in Naperville now. I'm from the South Side.”

“I'm from the South Side.” He dropped this casually, but his eyes caught mine, challenging me.

“Shut up! You're not.” Then, returning his serve, I shot back, “Mother McAuley,” naming the large all-girls' private high school I'd attended, one easily recognizable to any South Sider.

“I went to Marist.” Marist was the boys' equivalent to my alma mater. “What year did you graduate?”

Too many sets of ears had grown too interested in our conversation, so I went mute.

“I graduated in 1986,” he volunteered.