A Modest Proposal

So yesterday, I received my third marriage proposal.

Yeah.

I’m kind of at a loss for words about it, so perhaps I’ll start with the two previous and go from there.

First: It was midwinter of my senior year in high school.  I was 17.  I know it was midwinter because I was wearing my Grampa’s coat, what I affectionately dubbed my DPS coat.  I was completely head over heels.  Loved.  Adored.  Cherished.  Or so I thought.  I was sitting on the end of a skee-ball machine at the arcade where he worked, baking in my DPS coat.  He finished helping a customer and sauntered over to me.  We’d been dating for some months, and for the first time in my ignorant blip of an existence, I got a taste of “love.”  His infinitely wiser 24-year-old-self looked at me with a grin and casually asked, “So, when are we getting married?”

Without batting an eyelash, I responded, “Not until I’m done with college.”  

I was smitten, not stupid.  Even at that point in my ignorant, ill-formed, idiotic life, I knew better than to respond with a fervent, emotional yes, and this was a gut reaction to a man I “loved.” 

Oh, God.  What if I’d said yes?  I guess my choleric took over and I never spent too much time dwelling on it.  I don’t think I ever considered this to be a serious proposal.  At least, I didn’t take him seriously.  Good thing, too, because the truth eventually came to light: surprise!  He wasn’t serious.  Well, I mean, he wasn’t joking when he said it; he was dead serious.  But when greater difficulties arose, he decided to quit rather than commit.  We didn't even make it half-way through my freshman year at college. Praise God.

Second:  Sophomore year in college.  We were going to breakfast one morning.  This one looked over to me and asked, “So, where do you want to go?”

I was famished.  In my head, I thought four things: quick, cheap, charming, good.  My brain decided on a little-known grease-spoon on the outskirts of East Green Bay.  It was a place my dad took me a few times, and they served omelets the size of your head.  A glorious smell of coffee and frying bacon mixed with seasoned salt always saturated the air.  My stomach rumbled.

“Ummm.  Do you know where Mill-Town Café is?”

His head jerked sideways to me in a look that crossed the threshold between panic and joy.

“Mill-Town Café?”

“Yes.”

“On the east side?”

“Yes.”

“You actually like it?”

“Yes, they have omelets the size of your head.”

“Will you marry me?”

“No.”

*Facepalm*  I knew that one was joking, but still.  What an idiot.  What a trite reason to propose.  Gah!  I’m having a hard time even recollecting this now because I’m so disappointed with myself for choosing to date men who were absolutely clueless about wooing, winning, and honoring a woman properly.  That one ended with good reason soon after.

Can I just say this now?  Marriage proposals are serious shit.

Third:  Last night’s incident seemed like it was taken straight out of a very poorly-written chick-flick (I can’t name an example, because I don’t watch that kind of garbage).  I’m in Green Bay, going to dinner with my grandmother.  We arrive to the restaurant for a German night.  I’m dressed well- but not to the nines.  (If you want to see me dressed to the nines, attend a wedding, ordination, or any major church event involving a Cardinal with me.)  I’m wearing a simple, A-line, knee-length, knit coral dress from Old Navy, pearls, and brown flats.  My hair is effortlessly scrunched up in one of my stand-by octopus clips.  I’m not wearing any makeup.  At all.  Just lip gloss.  I’m not fertile.  I’m exhausted from work.  I’m hungry.  I’m with my grandmother.  I want to eat German food and then go have a beer with my BFF.  That’s it.  I’m not trying to impress anyone or grab attention. 

We arrived to the restaurant about 20 minutes before dinner is served, but they won’t seat us.  They told us we can wait in the bar, but my Grama will hear none of it.  So, we head back out into the crisp, 70s fall weather and find a bench to sit on and waste time. 

Five minutes go by, and up rolls this rusty old 4-door sedan with a rosary hanging from the rearview.  (An aside: I HATE THAT.  A rosary is a powerful prayer tool- not a hood ornament.)  The driver is motioning to me.  I see the rosary, so I automatically assume that it’s someone I know from Cathedral or CYE or something.  I lean forward to wave back, but my arm falls dead to my side as I realize I don’t recognize this person at all.  To top it off, he has a creepy, creeeeeeepy look on his face.  He rolls down his window and says, “I’ve found you!  You’re the most beautiful woman in the world!  Will you marry me?”

I was revolted and insulted.  (My dear reader, you know by now how seriously I take my vocation, and this seemed like a complete mockery of it.)  I wish someone would have been there with a camera to see the look on my face. 

“Are you Catholic?”

He motioned to the rosary.  “Yes.”

“Do you go to Mass?”

“Yes.”
“How long’s it been since your last confession?”

A look of bewildered frustration crosses his face. “Stutter, stutter, incomprehensible mumble.”  Stunned silence.  It didn’t sound like he was too dedicated to the sacrament.  (EPIC WIN, HOLY SPIRIT).

He made the “call me” hand gesture at me, to which I replied, “No.  I’m a youth minister.  No.”

I couldn’t hear too much of what he said, but I caught “Wait right there.  I’ll be right back.”  I shook my head “no” at him, and waved him away as he drove off.

My grandmother piped right and said, “If I had asked your grandfather those questions, you wouldn’t be here.”

Emboldened by my refusal, I shot back, “Grama, times were different back then.  It’s a new day.”

I was stunned.  I was not flattered.  I did not have butterflies.  Hell, I wasn’t even blushing.  I was just revolted.  I had lost my appetite.  My grama and I were still waiting to go in the restaurant for another ten minutes.  I finally said, “We need to go in before he comes back.”

THEN, like an idiot, I chose a seat next to the window, which was clearly visible from the street where we were sitting earlier.  So, clearly, I wasn’t even paying attention when he walked into the restaurant, strode right up to the hostess, pointed at me, and marched over to my table with this:

“You said you’d wait for me.  I brought you this.  My name is Michael.”  He extended his hand.  I’m still stunned.  I shook it with all the ferocity I could muster and said, “I’m Jen.”

“Jennnnn.”  He breathed it like a death rattle.  “Please call me.  I’ll answer all your questions.”  I said thank you graciously, and he left.

My grama looked at me with a triumphant smirk on her face, her eyes telling me she was overjoyed that her 31-year-old prudish, dried-up spinster of a granddaughter finally had a prospect.

I wanted to vomit. 

Now, rarely do I contest my grandmother, or even talk back to her, but after I saw the look on her face, I shook my head No.

“But…”

“No.  I said NO.  AND NO MEANS NO.” It especially means no when it comes to some psychotic, infatuated stalker who is probably casing the joint so he can follow me and my grama home. 

NO. 

BECAUSE NO! 

Now, gentle reader, let’s explicate.

I’ll give the guy credit for bravery.  That was admirable.  And persistence.  Good stuff.

BUT YOU JUST DON’T EFFING DO THAT.

Not on the street.  Not where she’s vulnerable.

I don’t care if you’re 6’2”, have blue eyes, flaming red hair, and a medium build packed nicely into a 3-piece suit that's stepping out of a lamborghini with 2 dozen roses in your hand (If they’d been red and white, that’d be a completely different story that I’d chalk up to the miracle of the St. Therese novena).  If you treat me like that, you won’t have a snowball’s chance.  Marriage is not about infatuation.  And I know I’m preaching to the choir here, but my disgust is turning into anger (yay for cholerics!).  Marriage is not a quick fix to drain the side-effects of how you burn and pine after seeing me for the first time.  (Go re-read this.)

This was not romantic.  It is not the way to win my heart, let alone my respect.  When a man takes the time to get to know me, not just my body, he’ll win my respect and affection.  He’ll decide from that point whether or not life-long commitment is in order, and I’m sure he’ll understand that my beauty will fade.  However, he’ll know tons of other things based in friendship, not infatuation and lust, that he’ll find beautiful and attractive.  And, conversely, while we’re building friendship, I’ll learn some really important things about him that will make me more willing to consider him as a lifelong partner who intends on getting me and our children to heaven.

For instance:

Is he Catholic?

Is he attending Mass, Confession, and Adoration regularly?

What’s his prayer life like?

What books is he currently reading?

Is he living on his own and has for some time?

How many kids does he want?

Does he have a degree?

What kind of job does he have?

Is he or will he be ready to support a stay-at-home-wife and about 5 million home-schooled kids?  (That might sound shallow, but it’s important.)

What’s his relationship with his family like, specifically, his father?

What does he believe about contraception?  Abortion?  Gay “marriage”?  Male celibate priesthood?

Is he trying to get to heaven?  How?

Is he trying to get me to heaven?  How?

Yeah.  Those would be the biggies.  Any good Catholic man would, I’m assuming, not only be emboldened in his resolve to pursue when asked these questions (because they're the right questions a good Catholic woman should ask him to challenge his resolve in a healthy way), but he'll also have the correct answers. 

Wanna know how to piss off a woman?  Ask her to marry you without meaning it.  Mock the deepest, most ardently desperate desire of her heart.  Rip open that wound and pour battery acid on it.

This guy had no clue, and that’s what I learned by asking those three questions.  A man who takes his faith as seriously as I need him to wouldn't mock the sacrament like that.  He would be a man about it.  But, our society teaches our boys to remain in Neverland forever: that chick-flicks are the norm, and that life- long commitment can begin with creepy encounters on the street that leave a woman feeling like a ten-dollar hooker who’s content with treacley, pre-fabricated, trite, terrible, insincere Hallmark poetry chopped from teh intarwebz:

Repugnant.

This poor, clueless sap.  Of all the women in the world, I make his heart burn.  Too bad for him, I’m a spiritual arsonist who won’t settle for a matchstick existence. 

I mean, what the hell is wrong with me?  Most girls would be overjoyed to have one proposal, let alone three!  Most girls (my grama included) would think I’m an idiot for not letting this guy sweep me off my feet.  Most girls would be flattered, blushing, excited, giggling, smitten.  Most girls would fall for that folderol.  

Guess what?

I’m not like most girls.

PS- to my dear and loving future husband: I know you’ll be attracted to me physically.  I’m not stupid; that’s what attracts guys: beauty.  But how’s about you reign in those sentiments until you know me and find the whole package beautiful- not just the wrapper?  God love ya.  You’ll be a saint by the time we’re through.  Love ya.

PPS- Props to you if you get the title.