Down on one knee

The news of our engagement spread like wildfire. To be followed by an snowballing aftermath of questions. Not just from friends but from everyone; friends of friends, my chiro and the chick I did yoga with 2 years ago who still greets me like a long lost friend even though I have no idea of her name. She and every human I’ve ever had contact with, have somehow heard the news. And they are hungry. Famished. Wanting to consume every details of swoon worthy romance, of a man down on his knees in front of the woman he loves. Proposing. Asking for her hand in marriage. God help him if he gets it wrong, if by some cruel twist of fate the childhood fairy tales his mother read him don’t match that of his beloved’s and he gets it wrong. For, from that moment on, the only intimate union the poor bastard will be engaged in, will be with his own hand.

How is it that we have become so starved of romance and conversely seem to have such set standards of what this romance should look like? As a society breast-fed on fairy tale romances and white washed weddings, are we ultimately doomed to always be reaching for the unobtainable expectations of Walt Disney’s impossibly small waisted leading ladies?

I don’t want to admit it but if I’m being totally honest I can’t help it. Having a man down on one knee, ring in hand, in a gallantly submissive position, asking (begging even) for you to commit to him, is breathtakingly romantic. It’s the ultimate, instantly recognizable declaration of love. 

And if this man of mine had popped the question this way? I let myself daydream the scenario and my response comes quickly. He doesn’t see it coming. An instant flush of embarrassment followed by a swift clip over the ears and demands for him to get up before someone sees him. This grown up, independent, liberated woman doesn’t want her man down on one knee. Fuck that! My adult persona is horrified. Outwardly horrified, but internally? Internally, from the juvenile depths of me, coloured by every romance novel, movie, little golden book I’ve ever read, hell, even those dodgy romance comics from the 90’s, I am protesting. Wailing in fact, as only a young girl could at being denied the lasted cabbage patch doll. From inside my wooden dollhouse of childhood memories, where my focus is firmly fixed on arranging Barbie’s new wardrobe, my voice reverberates off the walls. ‘I want the dream, Prince charming down on his knees, the happy ever after and my fairy princess moment’

My rational mind wants answers. Is this down on one knee tradition founded in some logical explanation that will help me swallow it? Well, there is nothing definite to be found, just assumptions and parallels drawn to kneeling before god; kneeling before royalty; kneeling down in front of ones enemy in surrender and even kneeling to face and honour the woman’s womb. I guess with all of this there is plenty of room for us to concoct our own modern day reasoning and rationale to appease our need for romantic gestures and happily ever afters.

I mean seriously, if we bring this laying down of chain mail over a puddle to keep the maiden’s cowhide clad toes dry into a modern context, do we really want our men on their knees? And even if his plastic leg could bend that far, would Ken actaully get down on one knee to win Barbie’s heart? Or would he just rock up in his new Jeep, flash his wallet full of plastic and with a bat of her oversized eyelashes, they would roll off into the carefully crafted Mattel landscape to set up house together?

And still every woman I run into is hungry; starving it seems to live vicariously through the star dusted love stories of others. Craving romantic tales of men on their knees, with a diamond in hand. Oh yes, dare I mention the ring.......?

The perfect proposal

Riding on the loved up wave of the proposal and still finding my feet after the spontaneous and decided YES that came from with in me, I was overwhelmed by the out pouring of well wishes and shocked congratulations from our family and friends at the announcement of our engagement. Our phones and Facebook notifications went crazy, their constant pinging began to feel like being trapped inside a pinball machine on a winning streak. It was a brief and surreal high that lasted until the questions came rolling in. The questions and comments that served as a quick slap back into the reality that he and I were not this little island of love, free to love and express that love how we saw fit…..we were very swiftly reminded that we are part of a society and culture that is wrapped in tradition and laden with expectations.

I was not at all prepared for the questions that followed. Even if my desire as a young girl in the 80’s to be part of that knee high, brown sock club with all their outdoor adventures and dib, dib, dibs had been fulfilled and I was allowed to join the boy scouts, I doubt even they could have prepared me in the slightest for all the questions that followed.

Who is this man? How come we haven’t met him? 

What’s the rush? 

OMG that’s so soon, you haven’t even known each other a year, have you?

Are you up the duff?  

WTF, your getting married? I didn’t think you were the marrying type.

Is this a joke?

And then the big one….the information that seemed to somehow be public property, that all your nearest and dearest, included your hairdresser and local check out chick thought they has right of access too…How did he propose? The first time I was asked this, I was shocked.  Not so much that the question was asked, rather that I seemingly wasn’t prepared with a suitably idealistic answer to sedate the hunger for glittering romance in the asker. Shocked because I could feel the dissatisfaction and what can only be described as pity in their response, ‘oh, so no flowers or down on one knee then?’ I could feel their disappointment run down me like ice cream that had melted and made its way down your arm long before you had had your fill of its sugary goodness. It stuck with me and I found myself defending my man and our story, perfecting and refining it a little more every time someone asked. 

I even started questioning it myself. Was I willing to accept this proposal? Where the hell were the flowers and shinny things to make me swoon? Had he actually even put any thought into it at all? Did he give a shit about making this special? And the truth was, underneath all that societal fairy tale expectations of what this moment should be; it was stunningly beautiful and romantic. It was us, being fully present with each other, in a perfectly intimate moment, looking into each other’s eyes, with the sound of the leaves cheering us on as they brushed against the balcony and  the sea breeze blowing its salty blessings through the open door.

At the time it was perfect, my face held so purposefully between his hands and me, through eyes leaking with raw emotional whispering back at him ‘Yes’. 

He asked, I said YES, we went fishing.

He asked. 

I said yes. 

We went fishing. 

And that’s exactly how I announced to the world (well, at least to my Facebook community) that I was engaged.

Sure I wanted people to know that I’d finally found him. You know, ‘him’, the one, that elusive man that is meant to be our all and everything. After all my experimenting, not so savoury past relationships, Xenna war cries that I don’t need no man and a small burst of what I thought was sexual liberation, I wanted people to know that this guy here, was the one but I didn’t want a fuss. Lets not get all gushy and overly sentimental, we can’t have any of that now.

Parts of me actually felt sick announcing it to the world. The part of me that hates to fail, that part that goes on a diet but doesn’t tell anyone, instead sneaks off to the privacy of my own home to munch desperately on carrots and protein shakes, while resighting Anthony Robbins affirmations and praying to the god of skinny bitaches that he (oh Yes this god is a man for sure) bless me with the will power and genetic makeup to fit into a size 12 pair of levis. For if no one knows I’m attempting my 14th diet this decade, no one will know I failed…again, if those stubborn Kg’s don’t move. No matter that it could potentially be helpful to have a few supportive folks around…I’d rather sit in the dark, gagging on celery juice, struggling to keep up the cheery demeanour while coveting my colleges morning tea and no doubt consuming the calories through some sort of thought osmosis, a special power possessed only by those of us on the cuddly side. Yes, this part of me felt sick announcing to the world that I was engaged, engaged to be married! 

Couldn’t I just declare my love for this man secretly, cant we just joyfully wallow in each other privately and on my death bed after we have managed 50 years together announce that we are married and committed to each other…after the fact, when we know for certain this thing is going to weather the ravishes of time? When we have succeeded at this marriage thing.

I only want to do this once, as it should be, you know, like the fairy tales, find your true love, marry him and live happily the ever after in a dream castle, paved with glitter and Disney induced ideals. Like Cinderella, Snow White, Ken and Barbie, although I must say, that my Ken doll drove off in the back of my brothers Tonka truck and Barbie responded by inviting her girlfriends over for a celebratory PJ party, cut her hair short and sported some very badly drawn anchor tattoos, etched into her plastic with Biro. This fairy-tale is a one-time thing, isn’t it? And that, right there in the reality of daily life, equals a lot of pressure.

 As these words fall out of me onto the paper, I can hear someone yelling in the distance, ‘Hypocrite, you bloody Hypocrite’. It’s the realist in me, the one who has supported friends through marriage breakups and who encouraged friends to take the plunge and follow their hearts. The part of me that believes in living in the moment, honouring what feels right at this point in time.

‘Girl, what have you got to lose, you love him, and you want to commit to him, then just go for it.’ My own words come hurtling back at me and I’m rendered motionless by their weight. Yes, girl what are you afraid of?