The Proposal
I just got engaged. Cue party poppers, cheesy grins and oh-so-many bottles of champagne. Yes, I’m loving it, but I’m also nervous, distracted and just a little bit terrified.
My boyfriend of eight years proposed on holiday in Cuba. We were on the rooftop terrace of the Ambos Mundos hotel in Havana when he made me turn around “for a photo” before dropping down on one knee and asking me the question I’ve imagined hearing for, oh, almost every single one of those eight long years.
I was totally taken aback. Yes, I’ve been waiting for this since university ended and real life began but I wasn’t expecting it – and I certainly wasn’t prepared for it. My unfortunate natural response was a tearily confused “are you serious?” and a disconcerting feeling that this was somehow an anticlimax.
Then the joy set in. I said yes (of course), put on the diamonds and let my shaking boyfriend sit down and relax for what I imagine was the first time in months. I danced through the streets of Havana, drank far too many mojitos and woke up the next morning wondering if it had all been a dream.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m excitedly, deliriously, unbelievably happy to be engaged. But once it’s happened, that’s it isn’t it? No more wondering when and how it might happen, spending days at your desk dreaming up perfect chickflick-worthy scenarios… reality bites. My boyfriend genuinely could not have found a better time, place or way to propose, it was perfect. But I’m itching for it to happen again, which means the fact that it already has is just that tiniest, faintest bit depressing. Is that terrible?
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