An Engaging Tale of Love and Disbelief words and toons by Crack

I am engaged to be married! How I became engaged to be married is perhaps the best story I have ever known, but I will do it no justice as my brain was not really capable of thought by the time it was over. However, for you dedicated fans, I'll try. It was Thanksgiving weekend. Jon and I were heading for his brother's house in Boston where the families migrate together. This time, however, his brother's friend, Dave, was flying in as well and we were asked to pick him up on our way to the gathering. This hardly seemed a problem until Jon mentioned the night before that this was a 7 am arrival time. I "mphed" my displeasure, finished my packing and went to bed. Jon stayed up watching TV, his favorite vice aside from chocolate (and maybe me). He'd finish his packing later. I asked him to leave the suitcases by the door and not to put them in the car overnight (I still mourn those things I lost in my car that was stolen from our driveway). He "mphed" from the living room and I took up my book. (I have to read before I go to sleep, it's the only way to quiet those billion-and-one things I have to do tomorrow.) Contrary to my last plans of the day, Jon skipped into the bedroom, gently chastised me for being unhappy about getting up early, took my book out of my hand and shut-off the light. I reflected that he happens to be the cranky morning-riser amongst we two, but snuggled down and went to sleep.

The alarm jarred me awake and I was in a fog. You know that quaky, not-quite-out-of-sleep fog you stay in until your brain really decides to wake up? Well, I think I could have made out its shoreline from where I was, standing bleary-eyed at the bathroom mirror. I croaked and groaned and made my way through the house getting showered and dressed in a kind of automatic stupor. I popped in my contacts and squinted at the clock: 6:15. It felt like 4 am -- too late to consider it a late night and too early to be humanly possible for any constructive action during the day. Jon was already ready as I ate my cereal and went to load the car. The suitcases were gone.

"Jon?" I called warningly from the hallway. ('Warningly' isn't a real word, but it should be.) "They're in the car," he called back. "I told you...!" "I know," he said soothingly, "but I just wanted to get it done." I growled and checked the window to see if the car was still there. It was. Lucky for him. I grumbled off into the bathroom to quietly pack my make-up while Jon finished his breakfast. While this might not seem a big deal to note, there are those things that crop up during a relationship, tiny idiosyncrasies that seem trivial should you look at them objectively, but while enduring these pet peeves with another person dear to you become screamingly annoying to the point of ludicrasy ('ludicrasy' is also not a real word, but should be). Such a thing is my make-up. I don't wear it often, but I like to when special occasion permits. Jon hates make-up and says it's slimy and horrible and bends the will of women under a yoke of social preconceptions of outer lookism and youth culture. I agree with him, but it's fun to match my face to my clothing! He barely tolerates my logic let alone my fashion. He'd have made a terrible woman.

Anyway, this is why I am packing my make-up without telling him, as I'm not in the mood to get into a philosophical discussion over it. I want to look nice for his family on Thanksgiving; end of story. Unfortunately, I can't seem to find my make-up. Of course, my brain isn't what it usually is, so I forgive myself enough to start tearing through all the shelves, spilling half the contents into the sink, looking for my cosmetic bag. Jon popped his head in. "You ready to go?" "In a minute," I mumble, then head out to my workcase and rummage through it. Where could my stuff be? My brain isn't good at memory tricks at present. "Need help finding something?" "No!" I'm being overly-harsh, but I'm tired and don't want to admit I'm clawing about the apartment looking for my shackles to the masculine-dictate socio-conscious environment of feminine secondary status. Jon stood there watching me burrow like some proto-human digging for grubs. "What would you like me to do?" he ventured. "GO AWAY!" I bark. He ran. I met him out in the car quietly cursing that I haven't found my cosmetic bag. I'll just have to be "naturally beautiful" like right now. Blech.

We drive away, me silently fuming and Jon altogether chipper. I hate him for it. I turn on the radio, Jon flips it off. He wants to talk instead; I barely listen. Somewhere before the highway, I consciously decide I'm going to get over myself and relax. I talk to Jon about whatever's been going on at work, catching up on friends of friends and just being with him, which is a rare thing due to our work schedules being almost diametrically opposed. We start to circle the airport and Jon's pulling past the arrival gate. "Where are you going?" I ask. "Just hang on." "Aren't we meeting him at arrivals?" He says nothing. "We're meeting him at the gate?" "No, just wait a minute." He pulls into the long-term parking lot across the way from the airport proper. "Shouldn't we park in Short Term?" I query. "I want to park here." "Do you think it's cheaper or something?" "Do you trust me?" "Yes." "Then cool it." Jon pulled into a spot and cuts the engine. I'm now back to being miffed and can't for the life of me figure out what he's doing. But why bother correcting him? He'll do whatever he'll do and then we'll get going; it was still a long drive to Boston. Jon shifted in his seat and turned to me, taking one of my hands in his.

"Listen, I want you to know something: I have been lying to you for a long time now..." THAT got my attention! I was instantly awake, my heart stopping mid-beat: he was breaking up with me, he found someone else, he was shipping me home to mother, he was gay... "...we're not going to Boston for Thanksgiving. We're going to an island in the Caribbean because I have something important to ask you." He grinned a half-twisted grin. The grin did it. "No way," I sneered, "right. Well then, I guess we'd better go not-get Dave and start not-heading out to Boston then." Jon looked mildly surprised. "No, I mean it. We're going to this place called St. Martaan, it's an island that's half-French and half-Netherlands..." "No, we're not; we're going to your brother's house for Thanksgiving..." "No, we're going to the Caribbean."

I gave him a cross stare, "Then why are we at the airport picking up Dave?" Jon laughed. "Dave isn't coming here. It was just a way to get you to the airport." My brain did it's first stall. "But... your father's big dinner, his award..." "It was the only way to get you to pack nice clothes." Check. "But... uh... we're supposed to be helping make Thanksgiving dinner!" "They'll forgive us. Everyone knows about it," he said proudly. "Everyone but you." "The benefit conference..." "I made it up and asked work to schedule it in so you wouldn't plan anything else." Mate. "No way..." At this point, Jon gave up on my failure to process and got out of the car. He trudged to the trunk and took out our baggage. There was a lot more than I remembered packing. "That's full of sweaters," I protested half-heartedly. "No, it's full of bathing suits. I re-packed them while you were sleeping." "No way!" The edges of a smile were creeping onto my face, I remember thinking that if I let myself believe this for even a moment, I was gone for good. "Come on, let's go!" Jon crowed. "NO WAY!" I jumped in the air laughing. I bounced all the way into the airport where we got into a line bound for St. Martaan. Jon pulled out the tickets and pointed to my name in dot-matrix print. I stared at it and beamed. Jon laughed.

At the counter, the lady asked if anyone else packed our bags; I said yes. She asked for our passports; I asked if we had passports; we did. She told us our flight and gate. I asked if we were going to St. Martaan. She looked at me strangely and I boasted I didn't know that I was taking this trip until just now. She smiled at Jon and said I was a lucky girl. Don't I know it! When I saw the rainbow arching between two cloud layers on our way to our stopover in San Juan, I knew it was real. Jon lay asleep, one hand in mine, very real. At a tiny airport and a small jump flight, I wondered when he'd ask. We splashed in aquamarine waters, felt sand on our toes and walked through the small restaurant district of our hotel's village and I wondered when he'd ask. And that night, at a French restaurant overlooking the water and the sky, Jon admitted he had a wonderful life, but nothing so wonderful as the last three years we've been together and he got down on one knee, cracked open a ring box and asked if I would marry him. Yes way!

Behind the scenes: Jon had known that I was looking for my make-up; he had packed it already but didn't want to tell me if I didn't ask him directly. He had packed the car so that I wouldn't "suddenly remember" anything and open up the suitcases to find bathing suits in them. And the reason I was so tired is that it was really 4-something in the morning, a necessity so we wouldn't miss our 5-something international flight, and Jon had changed all the clocks in our home and in his car so I wouldn't realize it -- he even shut off the radio in case they mentioned the time on the air. He had trouble packing for me (as the one time he scheduled to meet one of our friends at our house to help him pack for me, I had come home early and she covered nicely and warned him off), so he had phoned my mother late last night and got a list of clothes she remembered I owned. Unfortunately, most of them were in the bedroom where I was sleeping. He crept into the bedroom with a flashlight and some clothes hangers. [My mother asked him what would he do if he got caught? Jon responded that he'd have to admit to me that he likes wearing women's clothing or something! Mom loves telling that bit to all her friends.] Jon had been planning this entire thing for three months and I never knew. I felt horribly guilty for being mad today, or any other day during this time, or ever, and it explained why he was so jumpy as of late. I love him madly and he's (obviously) just as mad for me. And all our single guy friends hate him.

Around the time this issue hits the Web, "Crack and her fiancé" should become "Crack and her husband." The Grumble staff wishes the couple all the best.