The proposal that was, and the two that weren't
Given tomorrow is the second anniversary of our engagement, I thought I'd share with you the tale of how it all came to pass to begin with. So, we shall begin with the two specific moments when he did not propose (despite me expecting he would), ending with the fine day he actually did. As a bonus feature, you get to see just how shallow I can be.
Not engaged, part one.
We had been together for about three years, and were happily living away at our flat. The first instance of not-quite-but-almost was on my twenty-first birthday, which that particular year happened to be a Friday. I was doing Honours, so had few contact hours, while Ben worked full-time. So, on the Friday morning I was very pleasantly surprised to find he'd taken a day off to be able to be with me on birthday. As my present, he gave me... a rose-shaped ring box.
Really, can you blame me for getting a bit giddy at this point?
Inside the box was his great aunt's engagement ring.
What could I possibly think? I waited for the question. "Happy birthday, and...?". But none came.
Okay. Fine. What a lovely birthday present, great. Um, what's for breakfast?
Quite an understandable assumption to make, don't you think? :-)
Not engaged, part two.
This second one I blame on me - and Bridget Jones. I had only just read The Edge of Reason, where Bridget and Mark Darcy go on a skiing mini-break, and she's convinced that any moment now he's going to propose. I remember thinking Bridge, sweetie, you've really only been together for a few months, and yes it's inevitable, but come on now. Don't you think you're expecting a bit much from the trip?
Conveniently, we decided to go on a skiing mini-break to Perisher Blue. The difference between Bridget and Mark and me and Ben, I reasoned, was of course the fact that we hadn't only just shacked up, we had an established relationship. So I was within my rights to only pack the plastic-soled exceptionally slippery shoes for walking on ice, because they'd look nicer than the sensible wintery shoes I had - and one has to wear pretty shoes when being proposed to.
It's, like, the law.
Yes, it was a lovely holiday. But again oddly anti-climactic...
Whoopee!
So, two years ago. Two days before my birthday. We'd just arrived in Paris after spending a bit of time in Finland and in Stockholm. Ben was going to compete at a fencing world cup event, like he had in Stockholm. In Stockholm we had stayed in the official (expensive) hotel for the duration of the competition, and in the decidedly less comfortable (i.e. more affordable) Red Boat* for the remainder of the time. I assumed our plan was to do pretty much the same now except in reverse - spend the first couple of days in a cheap place, and the official comp days in the proper hotel.
Not being able to figure out the subway system fresh off the plane, we got into a taxi. I was getting very annoyed because Ben wouldn't let me see the name or the address of the hotel. For a start it bugged me not knowing, and secondly if I didn't know what the address was there was no way I could know whether he'd pronounced it correctly to the driver. Not that I'm little miss francophone or anything, but still.
We drove somewhere near the Eiffel tower, and suddenly I found myself in the Hilton, in a nice big room with a proper shower and hot water and littel sachets of moisturiser. Early birthday present: no slumming it this time.
In the evening we did the usual Paris things (the city, not the debutard): up the tower, down the tower, being horrified at the chef smoking while making your food etc. As we headed back to the hotel, Ben suggested taking a break and sitting down for a while. I'd been demanding breaks along the way throughout the day to rest my poor little feet: I only had the sensible winter shoes I'd refused to wear to Perisher**, which are too big unless I wear lots of woolly socks - a fantastic arrangement for Finland and Sweden, but in Paris it was getting really quite uncomfortable. I was quite relieved, usually he suffers my breaks with dignity rather than suggests them. So we sat there, next to the tower and, well... you know.
Take that, Bridget.
*the Red Boat is an actual boat, which operates as a backpacker hostel. It's cold, it has communal showers and tiny beds. But it's a red boat! so it's awesome.
**read: I had given up all hope. ;-)