It’s November 30th, 2010. The love sac in Rachel
and Montana’s apartment has become my nest on Tuesday nights. Another episode of Glee has come and gone,
along with the opportunity to confess I don’t really watch Glee. Brett and I
are stragglers as usual and the conversation turns to wedding plans.
I can feel this bubbling undercurrent of anxiety, like acid
that just hit simmer. Don’t. Panic. Why would I panic? Nothing’s wrong, right?
I’m not planning this wedding because I’m in grad school. That has to take
precedence. I mean, it’s just a wedding. A party. Why does the idea of a
wedding make me start calculating bus ticket costs? I wonder what Canada is
like…Wait, Montana is saying something to me…
“So how are you going to balance children and grad school?
You know you’re getting knocked up on that honeymoon, right?”
….Come again for Big Fudge? “….what?” Rage. There’s a tiny
Sarah in a circular, padded white room in my head that has stopped pacing and has
fixed her animalistic kill gaze on Montana.
“I mean, as soon as you get married, you’re going to start
popping out kids. That’s how it works.”
Flames. It’s like that scene where Cady leaps across the table
in Mean Girls.
“What do you wanna bet, Montana? WHAT DO YOU WANNA BET I WON’T
BE PREGNANT?”
From the corner, enter Brett Sprague, “Slap…bet…slap…bet….slap
bet…slap bet…SLAP BET! SLAP! BET!”
I’m in. I’m SO in. Like I can’t control whether or not I get
pregnant? Oh, Montana. You’ve made a terrible mistake today, my friend. It will
cost you your face.
Brett decrees, “If Sarah Smith is not pregnant by December 1st,
Two Thousand and Twelve, I hereby declare she gets to slap Matt Montana five
times across the face at any times of her choosing, as spelled out by the laws
of How I Met Your Mother”.
My hand juts out. “AGREED!”
Montana is hesitant. He insists he can’t slap a pregnant
woman. A hush falls over the room as we
all contemplate comparable prizes. Then, Montana lifts his head. I know that
look. It’s what I call his predator look. There’s a gleam that one usually only
sees on Discovery, the thrill and fire of competition with just a hint of
gleeful malice.
“I get to pick the middle name of the child”.
WOAH’s fill the room. Glances are exchanged. Tensions are
high.
Brett says, “So, should Sarah become pregnant by December 1,
2012, Matt Montana gets to pick the middle name of the child”.
I should have thought about it. I should have. I’m a
competitive, impulsive person, though, so my hand was shaking Matt’s before I
could finish the simple syllable “done”.
Brett cries, “A GENTLEMEN’S AGREEMENT! HUZZAH!” and my fate
is sealed. After some light banter, the name is decided:
Zboobs.
Go ahead. Say it out loud. It sounds possessive. Sarah
Zboobs Smith.
Woof. I don’t regret this. Let’s jump forward a bit, shall
we?
(This is already going to be a long story full of little
nuggets that will induce your gag reflex. If you need to fill in the gaps,
check out the Happy Birthday, Gime post I wrote back in February. It will catch
you up on the development of my friendship with Montana. Good? We clear? Okay).
Sometimes you don’t get married. Sometimes you show up at a
Five Guys on the Upper West Side with no ring on your finger to tell your best
friend about the horrific weekend you had calling off your wedding. Sometimes,
we do that. Sometimes we don’t want to admit it’s a little more complicated
than that. Sometimes he chooses that
moment to Kanye you and jump in.
“I’ma let you finish but I’ve got to say something to you
and I’m afraid if I let you finish your story, I’ll be too scared or feel too
guilty to say it. So I’m going to go first.”
Oh.
If you don’t know Matthew Montana, it is important to note
that he is a man of few words. Sparse words. I’m pretty sure the torrent force
of his love life our first year of grad school was in many way propelled by the
mystery he shrouded himself in. But I digress.
I got a five minute monologue. For Matt’s sake, I won’t
reveal the whole thing but here’s some highlights:
“I’ve been in love with you since I first met you”
“I saw some kids with their parents in Central Park and I
thought to myself I want that with Sarah. I want to you to be my family. Brett
told me not to say that but I said it and I hope that doesn’t freak you out”
(It did. And it didn’t. Which freaked me out more).
“I know we’re perfect for each other. You’re my best friend
in the world. I think we should be together and I had to tell you while I had
enough courage to do it. So that’s it”.
I don’t remember what I said at all. I remember reeling.
Here are some thought highlights:
He said I love you. We’re not even dating. I was just
engaged. This is too soon. But I love you too! WHAT? DON’T SAY THAT. I love
you! Stop it. Did he say babies? Like a family? Zboobs? It’s too soon! Everyone
will think you broke this off for him! Your relationship will be tainted! But I
can’t wait! I NEED AN ADULT! WHY IS EVERYTHING SPINNNNNIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNG?!?!?!?!
He’s perfect. We should make out. NO WE CANT DATE FOR A WHOLE YEAR.
We didn’t date right away…? (We kind of dated right away). I ran away to St. Croix to see my grandparents
and do some soul searching. I was kicking myself that no matter what I did, it
all led back to being with him. So I threw caution to the wind and decided to
just let it happen. We went on an incredible first date where he recreated the
first night we met on a boat. What a charmer, that Matt Montana.
Did I say I threw caution to the wind? Almost. I think at
the beginning of every relationship, one person is the gas and the other is the
brakes. I was most definitely the brakes. Case and point: we’re sitting in Matthew’s
apartment about a week after we’ve officially started dating. We’ve taken some big
steps in our relationship (things move fast when you’re best friends and
someone has already seen you ugly cry in your sweats with a box of Chinese
food. Sue me). Matthew finds a nickel with two hands shaking on the back. He
places it in my palm and says, “This nickel, which has clearly been chewed by a
dog, has two hands shaking on the back. Keep it with you always as a binding
symbol of our upcoming betrothal”.
I rub my eyes. The stress. “That is too soon, Matthew”. I
put it in my wallet in a little zipper compartment to humor him. We’re lounging
around and the Slap Bet comes up casually. What do we do? There’s only one
person to turn to: our Slap Bet Commissioner.
“Sorry, guys, a bet is a bet. Slap bets are a binding
contract”.
“You don’t think there’s a SERIOUS conflict of interest
here?”
“That sounds like poor strategy on Montana’s part.”
Whoomp. There it is.
Jump forward with me, again. As we jump, take a look down to
see a glorious relationship built on love, friendship, trust and respect.
Beautiful, right? Land with me on November 30th, 2012. I’ve made chocolate chip pancakes at Matthew’s
apartment. These are his favorite. He settles in, takes a swig of coffee, rubs
the cute little sprinkling of sleepy dust out of his eyes, lifts his fork and
then his entire body stiffens.
“These pancakes spell SLAP”.
BECAUSE TOMORROW IS DECEMBER FIRST. TIS THE SEASON, MONTANA.
GET READY FOR A VERY MERRY SLAPMAS!!!!!!!!!! This is my advent. It is
glorious. His head hits the table in
gloom. I cackle gleefully and do a dance usually reserved for anticipation of
Outback Steakhouse. That’s how happy I am. Steak happy.
The next morning is Slapmas, December 1st.
Matthew is tense. His skin is crawling. He is a puffed up balloon of nerves I
could pop with a pin. I watch three episodes of How I Met Your Mother, all
containing slap bet antics. He makes me a beautiful fried egg with an S on it.
For Sarah, Matthew? Or for SLAP? HA!
This isn’t funny. Why isn’t this funny?
“What is WRONG with you? You’re a grown ass man! I’m the
size of a little girl. Have you never been hit in the face?”
“I don’t want to get slapped! I don’t know! What time are we
meeting Josh Brown? Are you sure you don’t want to put on a dress? What about
your purple sweater dress?”
“To slap you? Please. I’m not even going to straighten or
curl my hair to slap you. We should head out as soon as I finish writing these
lyrics. To the song I wrote. About slapping you.”
We spend a lovely afternoon with Josh Brown and his
girlfriend, Caitlyn. Josh casually mentions that he’s never been to the high
line. I tell him it’s one of my favorite places in the whole city! It’s a
little cold but we should totally check it out!
As I skip along, I begin chirping about our good friend Sam
whom we drove bananas the first year of grad school. I’m describing his
beautiful West End penthouse as we approach the entrance to the high line and
we see…Sam?
“Sam! We were just talking about you! What are you…wait…what?”
Sam has a bouquet of purple anemones. These are the flowers Matthew got me for
Valentine’s Day. Nobody knows that they’re Matthew’s flowers for me except
Matthew. He’s also holding our French piggy bank. We made him on our first
anniversary to keep change to save up for our second anniversary because we’re
actors and we’re poor. Things are spinning. He’s proposing. This is happening.
This is happening now.
We walk up the stairs to the high line where we are greeted
by the Montanas. After hugs, Cynthia pulls out a penny and asks Matthew, “Penny
for your thoughts?” (This is my code word. I always say “Penny?” when I want to
know what someone is thinking). Matthew gives reasons he loves me. I’m overwhelmed. I’m
floored. I’m all of the things. Doing the most. Big Poppy (yes, this is how I
refer to Matt’s father in my head. It’s a story) also has a penny to procure
MORE reasons. We kiss and we’re off again.
It turns out he has
planted people I love all along the high line to do this exact thing. It is a
cheering squad of people I love and who love us. I am greeted by friends from
Elementary, Middle, High School, JMU, MSM, the real world and my family every
step of the way towards the biggest decision I’ll ever make. It is perfection. It speaks to how well this
man knows my heart because he knows the connections I forge with people are the
most precious thing in the world. He knows that once I’ve figured out he’s
proposing, I’ll need approximately forty minutes to calm down. He also knows he’s
the person who can calm me down the best.
When we reach the end of the high line, he takes the piggy
bank and gives me a wonderful speech neither of us remember about our life
together. Then, he asks me for the nickel.
Sweet. Merciful. Crap. I DO have the nickel! It’s in my
wallet!!!! I pull it out and put it in the piggy bank. He flips it, pulls out
the stopper and pulls out a little velvet bag with a ring in it. Now the ring
is in a box…a fancy box with a light! I can’t breathe. I’m so excited. We’re
getting married and HOLY MOTHER THIS RING IS PERFECT! We kiss and kiss. I can't cry because I'm too excited. I didn't think I would be this excited!
After that, Matthew whisks me over to Chelsea Piers to meet MORE family and friends. We toast at the bar and all head out to a dinner cruise
around Manhattan. Just like the cruise where we first met. Just like the boat
where we drank Thug Passion at sunset for our first date. This night is perfect. He is perfect. After dinner and a lot of
dancing, we go up to the roof to drink it all in.
I fell in love with this skyline when I was a kid. We would
pass over the Verrazano bridge, Mom blasting Billy Joel’s “New York State of
Mind”, never touching down on the way to visit her relatives on Long Island. It’s
the skyline that made me believe adventures were possible. It’s the skyline that renewed my hope that
there was a whole world to explore after Mom and Jim died. That skyline was the
backdrop for the first conversation I ever had with the man who will now be my
husband. I look out at my skyline and I feel something
shift. No, I am aware of something that already shifted, perhaps, but a feeling
I have no ability to place.
Here’s something most women won’t tell you: we don’t
actually love “happy endings”. At least, happy ending isn’t really the right
term. It’s sort of a misnomer.
I have been restless my entire life. I have pushed,
scrambled, kicked and pummeled my way through milestone after milestone
in pursuit of something I couldn’t even name. I thought anxiety was the fuel I
needed to get me where I needed to go, even though I had no idea what that
meant beyond “greatness”.
As I stood on the deck of that boat, I felt peace for the
first time in my entire life. That perfect moment of synchronicity when you’re
suddenly exactly where you were always supposed to be. This was supposed to be my happy ending but I
was overwhelmed by limitless possibilities. What will I be capable of if I’m
actually at peace? I suddenly felt that
I wasn’t chasing after life’s meaning. I had it. I had him. I had me. Now, I had the rest of my life to gleefully,
voraciously explore without fear of failure. Standing on that
boat, failure was the only thing that was truly impossible.
That peace, that freedom, that moment is what makes our
hearts skip a beat when we’re little girls: the hope someday life will be a
grand adventure instead of a desperate search. Fairy tales are about women with
the odds stacked against them, full of hope and struggling to get by until life
asks them a big question. I’m not saying
that’s a person, a thing or an achievement. It’s a moment we won’t know until
we truly confront ourselves. It’s a moment we lay the ground work for one bit
of excruciating, exquisite honesty at a time so that when life throws you a
tremendous opportunity, you know your yes.
Matthew is my yes. I’ve looked at him and felt he was mine
and I was his longer than I allowed myself to know it. Every day of loving him teaches me how to be fearless. It allows me to love everyone I come in
contact with a little more genuinely. If that’s all greatness I ever obtain,
well, isn’t that all the greatness there is to obtain? To be one of the lights
and to see what love begets?
I know what you’re wondering.
I still slapped him. It was a perfect night.
…That’s not to say perfect means “according to plan”. Sure,
there was the Korean bride who asked us to be in her wedding pictures. There
was the surly park ranger who appeared numerous times to tell us that the park
was closing soon. There was DGon. Oh, DGon. I love you so hard.
DGon was so excited to be a part of this proposal that he
started celebrating that afternoon. By the time he reached the high line he was…drunk.
He found his way past everyone to the
end where he delivered an epic speech about seagulls and chestacles (this is a
long and involved story about a poem he wrote in 8th grade and a
choir trip where he created the greatest awkward moment Blue Man Group has
known). These are the parts that make
this proposal nothing short of epic.
That being said, it’s time to see for yourself! Put in some
headphones to enjoy all of Sam’s whispered narration and to desperately try to
hear what we’re saying above the cacophony of NYC. Try to see if you can spot
the following:
- - The Korean Bride getting ready before she
approaches us
- -DGon wandering past the Montanas and the Smiths
- -Who is that mystery girl DGon is talking to? No,
seriously, I still don’t know.
- -Matthew trying to take credit for the purple
lighting
- -A woodland romp
- -The surly park ranger’s multiple warnings
- -Someone who surprised Matthew! (Besides DGon)
- -Allison before she runs up behind us
These are some highlights. Also, for the faint of heart, be
warned that there are a LOT of F-bombs in DGon’s speech. I would edit them out
but….no. No, I guess I won’t because I didn’t. Because it happened and it was
HILARIOUS. Besides, we live in a culture where this won’t be the first time or
the last time you hear that word and it won’t kill you. There’s also some
photos set to music so no matter who you are, your sensibilities and taste will
be offended! Huzzah!
And now….for your viewing pleasure…a highlights reel of….Slapgagement:
The Proposal!
