April 27, 2015

And Now I'm a Fiance

My friend, Hannah, was doing a wonderful job at screwing up my weekend plans last week.

You see, I was planning on working from home on Friday so that I could leave a little earlier for parents' in Baltimore and beat rush hour traffic. But then Hannah texted me on Wednesday to tell me that her apartment was going to be "fumigated," and that she needed a place to stay from 1-8 PM on Friday while that happened.

("A place to stay" meaning my apartment.)

I told her my Friday plan but said that she could definitely stay here for as long as she needed; she could just lock the door on her way out.

But she wanted me to skip Baltimore. I said, "Maybe." She said, "Let me know." I said, "I will." She said, "Let me know soon." And I promised I would.

My "soon" was different than her "soon" however, so she texted me again on Thursday asking me what my plan was.

Her urgency was a little flattering but mostly weird; why did she need 24 hours advance notice? But I gave it to her anyway. I told her that I'd probably go into the office after all on Friday and leave her the key. I also said that I'd stay in DC, so we could get dinner after I got home.

And I had every intention on doing that Friday, right up until a certain point in the shower after my 7 AM spinning class. It was a certain point I think everyone can relate to: that moment when you realize that today, no pants would be put on.

So I texted Hannah once I got out of the shower and told her that I was going to work from home after all, but that she could still come over and we could get dinner when I was finished. She said fine; she'd be over at 3:30.

The day after that was unremarkable: I sat in my favorite leggings (my sister's hand-me-down black yoga pants with a hole in the butt) at my kitchen table, working without any interruptions except the normal text exchanges with Derrick.

Before I knew it, it was 3:30.

And at 3:30, I got two text message almost simultaneously: one, from Derrick, telling me that he was finished with the two hour meeting he had been in (a meeting in which he absolutely could not text) and two, from Hannah, telling me she was going to be late.

Hannah's abnormally questionable punctuality aside, I wasn't too bothered; I had my Blake Shelton Pandora station turned up and I was knee deep in Microsoft Excel. I figured more time for me to get my work done.

What I didn't figure, however, was that 40 minutes later I'd look up and see Derrick standing in my kitchen, holding a bouquet of my favorite flowers.

Now, I kind of had a certain image in my head of the moment when I got engaged. In my head, my future husband would ask me to marry him as my hair flowed gently in the wind, old school Disney princess style. I'd also probably be wearing lipstick. And definitely a bra.

What I hadn't imagined is me making a shocked, fish-out-of-water face with a hole in the seat of my pants.

But that's exactly what I was doing Friday when I saw Derrick. I mean, I had just seen him last weekend. What in the world was he doing in my kitchen? Why was he holding flowers? Why did he look like he was about to pass out?

Is this really happening?

The answer to all of those questions became immediately obvious 39 seconds later when Derrick was kneeling down next to me, asking me if he could stay next to me for the rest of his life.

My weekend turned out to be nothing like I thought it'd be. My proposal story is even less like I had imagined.

But to risk being incredibly cheesy: It was perfect. It turns out that Disney-style is totally overrated.

And if you ask Derrick, it also turns out that I'm the most inconvenient person in the world to surprise.