After dating my husband for three years, I proposed to him.
No, I didn’t propose just because I am a feminist. The reason I was the one to ask him to marry me and not the other way around was–well, it was his fault.
I still joke about how I threw my husband’s phone number in the trash the first time he gave it to me on that little sheet of scrap paper. It wasn’t because I wasn’t interested in him, but because he’s black and I wasn’t ready to defy my parents in such a big way. I was definitely into him. Because I didn’t succumb to his charms like his previous girlfriends, he worked really hard to “get” me.
I did eventually give into his charms and we started dating. Not only did we have amazing chemistry, but our sense of humor complimented each others. One of his most frequent jokes was, “Let’s get married and move to the Bahamas!” Not the most romantic (or serious) of proposals.
His “proposal” became a running joke. He would propose at least once a week. It got to the point that I told him I wouldn’t believe him when the real proposal came along.
As much as we joked about getting married, I knew I wasn’t ready. We’d met during my freshman year in college and getting married before I turned 30 was not in my life plan. I also wasn’t sure if he really was the one. He was my only serious relationship. We were both theatre majors. What kind of life would that be?
I stalled on my decision mostly because I had to know 1000% that he really was the one before I would tell my parents I was dating a black man.
There was never an AHA moment when I knew I wanted to marry my husband. I had to be sure I was strong enough to stand up to my parents. I had to be sure that he was worth fighting for. Which he was. He graduated college ahead of me and we continued with a long distance relationship.
So, during my senior year in college, on a Sunday evening in October, during our long phone calls as we prepared dinner together in our respective states, I popped the question.
“Will you marry me?” I already knew what his answer would be, but that didn’t stop me from feeling nervous.
Silence befell the other end of the line.
“Are you serious?!?!” was all he said once he recovered. Needless to say he was ecstatic.
So, that is how I proposed to my husband. We celebrate our 12 year anniversary this August.
It’s a good thing he said, Yes.
This post was inspired by the novel The Opposite of Maybe by Maddie Dawson. At the age of 44, Rosie finds herself suddenly single and pregnant. Before she left her longtime boyfriend, he attempted a lame proposal in a cafe. She tries to hide in her grandmother’s home, but meets two men that will change her life forever. Join From Left to Write on April 8 we discuss The Opposite of Maybe. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.