I don’t know exactly when I decided I wanted to marry my girlfriend, Bo.

Maybe it was when we dealt with a flea infestation together the week after she moved in (it’s fine now! Borax to the rescue.) Maybe it was when she packed up and nearly singlehandedly moved my sister’s apartment, furniture included, from Bangor to Buxton in the middle of a heat wave. Maybe it was every night we’ve had together where we don’t do anything important or wild other than laugh ourselves to tears watching dumb videos on Instagram. Maybe it was all those times.

Longtime readers have seen me through a couple of serious relationships (and bless you for your patience). The thing is, with my former partners, I always felt like I was trying to convince them to commit to me; like I had to really sell the concept of marriage. Not so with Bo.

We’d discussed marriage, of course – we’re women in our 30s, how could we not? – and we were on the same page. She seemed so excited to be in a relationship with me and to plan out a future together. Wild, right?

My parents were lawyers, and they taught me to never ask a witness a question you don’t already know the answer to.

I ordered the ring three weeks before I proposed. I remembered when Bo had emailed us her Christmas wishlist last December – my mom has made everyone in the family send one out for years, so that Santa knows what they want – and Bo had put her ring sizes in (as well as her shoe, sweater and hat size. She’s very thorough). What I didn’t process until I was faced with trying to purchase a surprise engagement ring is that all of her fingers are different sizes, so I guessed the size in the middle and hoped for the best. It turns out a lot of adulthood is making an educated guess with your fingers crossed.

I didn’t pick a fancy one; it wasn’t custom-made, and it doesn’t have a big ol’ rock. Not that Bo doesn’t deserve to be dripping in diamonds, but I work in a call center, so I’m not exactly rolling in the Benjamins. I chose a thin 24k gold band with a small peridot stone (peridot is her birthstone and goes with her eyes). I got it from a small jeweler which is owned, operated and crafted by members of the LGBTQ community. It also only uses reclaimed, ethically sourced materials (social workers are not a big fan of blood diamonds).

I knew I wanted to propose while my immediate family was present, because my family and I are quite the package deal. She wouldn’t just be marrying me, she’d be marrying into all of the Hugo-Vidal wildness. And I knew the weekend of Aug. 3 would have to be E-Day. That weekend would be the last time in a long time that my core family was all together. My sister is getting ready to go abroad for graduate school; my brother lives in Virginia; Mom is in Buxton and I’m in Wiscasset.

I told exactly two people about my plan: my roommate, because she lives with Bo and I, and my sister, because I needed someone to film. Possibly the most impressive part of my whole engagement is that she managed to keep the secret for three entire weeks. That’s impressive for a kid who used to go running up to the recipient as soon as she learned about a Christmas or birthday gift. You couldn’t tell her anything; beans would be spilled.

I figured we would all end up playing a board game at the end of the evening on Saturday, so that’s when I planned to whip out the ring, when there was a natural lull in conversation in between laughter. What I didn’t account for is we all had a long day and the dinner, which was Mexican takeout, took longer to get home than we thought, so we were all a little bit too fried for a game. We decided to watch a movie. Specifically, we started up “Under Paris,” the French movie about the killer sharks swimming up the Seine. Should I have, in retrospect, waited for a more romantic moment? Maybe. But when I decide to do something, I commit. I didn’t want to wimp out.

My sister and I kept looking at each other throughout the first half of the movie. I could tell she was wordlessly asking “now?” And I kept silently saying “not until we’ve eaten.” Finally, at a lull in the shark action, we paused the movie. I made eye contact and nodded. My sister asked if I’d help her clear the dishes out. Great cover story for me to get the ring out and for my sister to get the camera ready. That’s when my brother almost threw a wrench into my whole plan by asking me to grab him another chimichanga from the kitchen.

I did not write a speech. I guess I figured I would just improvise. Unfortunately, I forgot that I failed to make it past tryouts for my college’s improv group for a reason. I think the reason there’s usually a little speech before popping the big question is to give your partner a moment to gather their feelings, process the situation and get their thoughts in line to be able to say yes. (Hopefully.)

I only realized this after the fact. So there my poor family and Bo sat, waiting to see who the French shark was going to eat next, when I said, “so, now that I’ve gathered you all here today – uh – I didn’t write a speech. Will you marry me?”

I dropped to one knee (I got that part right, at least) and whipped out the hardware. Everyone screamed. Bo thought it was a joke for a moment, and I had about 20 seconds of sheer panic, thinking I’d somehow miscalculated her love for me, before she said yes.

So we went to put on the ring and … it didn’t fit on her ring finger. Of course. I guessed the size wrong. We’re working on getting it adjusted, but it turns out you don’t need to wear an engagement ring on the ring finger for it to count. As I keep gently reminding her, no take-backsies. She’s stuck with me now. I think we’ll serve chimichangas at the reception.

Victoria Hugo-Vidal is a Maine millennial. She can be contacted at:
themainemillennial@gmail.com
Twitter: @mainemillennial