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.......?
