POPPING THE QUESTION

I was shooting for a complete surprise—and had been upfront about wanting to find at least a sliver of financial stability before buying The Ring—but Christa was not idly waiting. Her subtle hints came in the form of: “I have been very good at not pressuring you into proposing. I’m not one of those demanding girlfriends.”

That might be reverse psychology. She doesn’t pressure. She doesn’t demand. She doesn’t even want me to propose. Well, I’ll show her. Yes, I think it was. Plant the seed and let nature take its course. Thank you Psych 101 for making my life easy.

Finally, it was time. It was time to give her a blindsiding. Let me qualify this remark. Blindsiding is not proposing halfway into your first blind date. That could freak her out. And blindsiding is definitely not proposing where she would least expect it, such as at a gas station or McDonalds. I may have overstated making the proposal a complete surprise, but it wasn’t impending.

I felt even the little ring box would give away my intentions, albeit only moments too soon. This was where paying attention to more than I pretend to paid off. I am aware, for example, that she has an alarming dislike of lawn gnomes, and she also doesn’t care for Russian nesting dolls. “They’re kind of creepy.” Excellent (fingertips gently drumming one another).

I knew everything was right, when I stumbled upon safari-themed nesting dolls at Pier 1 a couple of weeks before my intended proposal date of December 23, 2003. Why this made sense to me was threefold. First, I intended to disguise The Ring within a Christmas present. Second, I wanted it to be a present that would immediately lower her expectations, such as a despised nesting doll. Finally, I have affection for animals that are not so pleasing to the eye, such as a fine bulldog or a well-groomed moose. This in no way implies that I can’t stand the cute ones. I just wouldn’t give them VIP status for boarding the ark. Therefore, these little oddities just made sense.

I opted for the giraffe. It was egg-shaped and painted with some character. There were three total capsules or dolls, the smallest around the size of a large chicken egg. Perfect for The Ring. You see, The Ring is more than two words. It’s spoken by a magical voice carried on light, reverberating thunder, coupled with a vision of sun bursting through the clouds.

Inside each of the first two giraffes, I put what was almost poetry, but closer to a toast, on paper, and The Ring was inside the third. I used one of our better wrapping papers and a blazingly red silk ribbon that Tiffany gave me. Only afterward would she piece together the clues and admit that my taste in ribbon seemed a bit too refined.

My proposal was scheduled for the day before we flew home for Christmas, from San Diego to the Midwest, out of LA. Activities for that Tuesday included work a full day, pack, eat dinner, open presents, drive from San Diego to a hotel by LAX, get engaged, and try to have time to enjoy it.

Knowing it would be an extra-busy day, I packed a day ahead. Christa did not. She finds practicality to be optional in most situations. Substitute the surprise engagement with her running a marathon or building a nuclear reactor and, still, packing could wait.

After residing in my boxer drawer for several days, then being wrapped and deposited in the top of her stocking, The Ring was ready. The time drew near. Present opening time. After I opened the gifts for the cat, we began. It was the first thing she pulled from her stocking. She claimed it was fate, but it could have been my selective placement and the unconscious draw of my wrapping flair. My thoughts began racing.

We are both sitting Indian-style on the living room floor. How do I kneel? That would be even more awkward. I would really like to take a picture of her the moment she finally knows, but that would kill the flow of the moment. Having a midget hiding behind the sofa to jump up and snap it would be even freakier, I imagine.

Then the bullets started flying.

“This is nice ribbon,” she said, as she removed it.

She must know something. Evade, evade.

“I got it at a store,” I replied.

Sometimes the predisposition of male ignorance of the finer things can work for you.

Fortunately, the wrapping was loose enough to expose a hint of giraffe and distract her from her line of questioning. It was about the reaction I was hoping for. I swear, I saw in her eyes the thoughts: “Do the last four years really mean nothing? Have you learned nothing of my taste for things?” I relished that moment briefly. Then I proceeded.

“You do need to open it,” I said.

Giraffe one was decapitated. Packaging was removed.

“Hold on! That is part of it,” I implored.

She had just discarded the most momentous piece of love poetry ever created. To say I had spent the past four years conditioning her to be surprised by my romantic side at this moment is only a small exaggeration.

The first message simply read: “In celebration of the times we’ve had…”

This was followed by an “aw.” Not an “Awww, that’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen!”—but more like a response to, “Honey, spinach leaves are on sale.” I suppose we should celebrate the toilet seat being down each morning as well.

I had to put aside my hurt over that specific oversight, but I was feeling nervously triumphant in believing that she still had no idea. Giraffe two was decapitated. Message two was expected and spared the humiliation of being cast aside like mere tissue paper.

Message two: “…and in anticipation of the times to come.”

It received a “That’s nice” sort of response. Although these messages were minor events in the grand scheme of things, a little credit for trying is always appreciated.

We had made it to the last giraffe, and it seemed her hopes weren’t really that high. This was where I would reclaim the high status, where her jaw would drop, and she would be completely stunned by the impending life-changing marriage proposal. The anticipation for me was nerve-racking.

Giraffe three was decapitated. And “ooh.” An “ooh” you got me something—not a diamond-ring something, more like a pack-of-golf-balls something.

Are you serious? That’s an engagement ring! It has a sparkly rock! Is this really so ho-hum for you?

In that same split second, I later learned, she was looking at the back of The Ring, thinking, “Ooh, he found a pinky ring for me.”

I had outdone even myself. She was looking at the engagement ring and still didn’t know what was about to transpire. That was true top-notch secret agent stuff. I had MacGyvered a piece of the original ring box foam into a “stabilizer finger” to keep The Ring from rattling in the giraffe; the foam finger, in turn, had acted as a bling shield, preventing her from seeing the sparkle.

Then, finally, at least point three seconds later, the sparkle revealed itself. This time, there was shocked silence.

But I was so rattled already I said, “This is it. That’s The Ring.” Cue thunder.

“Oh my God."

“Oh my God.”

I scooted on my haunches over to her.

“I can’t believe it.”

“With this ring I pledge my life and all of my heart…”

“Oh my God.”

 “…to making you the happiest person in the world.”

“Oh my God.”

“I am not perfect, but I will strive to be perfect for you.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I love you so much.”

“Oh my God.”

“I want you to be my wife.”

“Oh my God.”

“Will you marry me?”

Eventually, amid the shock and awe, she responded with an, “Of course,” which I boldly took as an affirmative.

I started to put The Ring on the ring finger of her right hand. Since I was facing her, this was the hand on my left and, therefore, seemed like the correct hand. It was not, which she pointed out. She wasn’t about to lose the proposal on a technicality.

She turned to her left and looked at the TV. Runaway Bride was on.

“That’s freaky. I wonder if it’s a sign,” she said.

“I doubt it,” I replied.

“It’s going to have to be our new favorite movie.”

I thought, “Well, it wasn’t before; does it have to start now?” But I decided against saying so. I simply said, “Sure.”

Next came taking pictures, mostly involving The Ring. I have never seen anything as distracting to a woman as a diamond ring. She was spellbound, like a dog waiting for the outcome of a can opener being used. Christa regained partial focus before I noticed visible drool.

“You don’t have to be in it. It can just be me and The Ring,” she said, gazing into its wonder.

I had gone from noncommittal boyfriend to fiancé to afterthought in about two minutes.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival