Love Was in The Air

Today’s dispatch comes a day later and over 1,200 miles westward than usual.

My location, in fact, is central to why this missive is tardy. Since Wednesday, Bridgett and I have been in Montana with a tightknit collection of college friends, some of whom we haven’t seen in a few decades.

Hard to focus on day-to-day routine when in the thick of so much catching up, reminiscing and creating a new round of memories.

On the other hand, one of those friends, Colleen, was pivotal in bringing this week’s column: an essay I wrote as a 24-year-old in the immediate aftermath of my marriage proposal to Bridgett. Back in 1993, apparently, I’d dispatched it to Colleen out in California.

On Thursday, on our 32^nd wedding anniversary, I woke up to find the six-page, dot matrix-crafted narrative on our cabin’s kitchen table, along with a congratulatory note scrawled on a paper towel.

It was a gesture both sweet and surprising—originally written in my bid to have it published in a magazine whose identity is lost to the mists of time, I’m fairly certain it’s the only copy in existence.

It also serves as this week’s belated installment of The Inside Edge:

Believe it or not, I haven’t always been the unabashed romantic that I am today.

Only three years ago, I informed my girlfriend that I’d rather get her a dozen eggs than a dozen roses.

“It’s more practical,” I explained in my infinite wisdom and painfully finite notion of romance. “The flowers just die, anyway.”

For her part, Bridgett bit her lip and, as I now realize, resolved to bring out the latent romantic in me.

She dug and dug and, finally, managed to unearth the true Casanova even I didn’t realize was lurking inside me.

Nowadays I’m known to write sappy poems and leave love notes here and there around the apartment. Not only that, but I even remembered to get her flowers for our third anniversary.

Not a shabby recovery for a seemingly hopeless pragmatist, huh?

Still, nothing prepared her—or me, for that matter—for the events which unfolded Jan. 10, 1993.

That was the day we flew home to Chicago after a weekend visit to Boston, where we attended a wedding.1

To backtrack a bit, in December Bridgett and I looked at engagement rings. She picked out the one she would like, in the event that someone happened to want to marry her. A few weeks later, with great stealth and in the pouring rain, I journeyed to the jeweler and made the clandestine purchase.

So, as far as she knew, at 7:30 p.m., eastern time, on Jan. 10th, I was ring-less.

5:30 p.m.

We’re fast approaching the metal detector that leads to our Boston terminal when, duffel bag in tow, I suddenly bolt for the bathroom. As I have been doing all weekend, I transfer the ring—as if it’s a hot potato—from my jacket pocket to my duffel bag.

All I need now is for the detector to expose me with one of those embarrassing beeps. It had happened en route to Boston, when I carried the gem in my jacket. Fortunately, Bridgett caught a later plane to Boston and my cover was not blown as I sheepishly handed the jewelry box to the security attendant.

All of which explains my frantic dash three days later, on the return trip, for the bathroom. Only problem is, I emerge in a matter of seconds and Bridgett gives me a puzzled look, as if to say, “Did you really use the bathroom?”

Sure enough, she asks, “Did you really use the bathroom?”

“Yeah,” I assure her, laughing nervously. “I was just worried about getting my bags (which I had hastily dropped outside the bathroom) stolen.”

She drops the line of questioning. I breathe a sigh of relief.

5:50 p.m.

We meet our friend Todd, my Cupid-like co-conspirator2. An especially energetic Bridgett sets up my camera on a counter, presses the delayed-timer button and we huddle for a picture before boarding the historic flight.

Perfect, I think. A great Kodak moment.

Feeling like I’m in a low-budget, crime caper movie, I slip Todd the camera. Soon he will be taking a picture that we don’t want to miss.

6 p.m.

The plane takes off and Bridgett, in the window seat, dozes off.

The moment to put up or shut up. After some hesitation, I realize I have no choice—I’ve blabbed my wonderful plan to everyone, including my family, friends and Bridgett’s mother.

I sneak to the back of the plane and enlist a flight attendant named Patrick for my scheme. I lean toward him and reveal the ring, peering nervously over my shoulder to make sure Bridgett’s still in her seat.

“We’re in the sixth row. So just ad-lib from there,” I instruct. “Be as dramatic as you can without giving it away. She’s an actress, so she’ll like that.”

He agrees to do his part, after dinner has been served and cleaned up. He estimates that will be in 45 minutes or so.

6:50 p.m.

Sure enough, dinner has been served and cleaned up.

My heart begins to pound furiously, as I anticipate the moment any moment.

In the window seat, Bridgett stretches out and leans her head on my lap, inches, maybe centimeters from the ring box. My mind races…Can she feel it? Why didn’t I put it in my other pocket?

“You’re worrying me,” she says. “You’re not reading, you’re not sleeping, you’re not talking.”

I emit a nervous, feeble laugh, unable to speak.

Paranoia sets in. She knows. Why did I have to tell everyone—and their cousin—of my plan? Someone was bound to slip up and say something to her!

7:15 p.m.

The paranoia gives way to restlessness. As I do after a vigorous workout, I check my pulse. One hundred forty beats per minute. Thump-thump-thump.

Tick…tick…tick…

7:20 p.m.

I rehearse my seven-word line, over and over again. I fear Patrick has forgotten about our plan. Tick…tick…tick…

7:28 p.m.

I can’t bear it any longer. I tap Todd, who is seated in front of me. “Tell him I’m ready,” I mouth. In my agitated state, I fear Bridgett will be suspicious of a whisper.

Todd walks to the rear of the plane and returns in a flash.

“When?” I mouth, my eyes pleading.

“Right now,” Todd says, a dead-serious expression on his face.

Finally, the time has come.

My heart kicks into overdrive.

My mind races.

My God, this is actually happening.

7:29 p.m.

The flight attendant’s voice crackles over the intercom:

“Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, the seatbelt light is on for our descent into Columbus International Airport...

“And in the 6th row, there’s a passenger who has a very...very...very...very...very...

Bridgett shoots a concerned look at the passenger on the other side of the plane. Later, she admits she expected the attendant to say “contagious disease.”

“...important question.”

Bridgett switches her gaze toward me, almost accusingly.

Thump-thump-thump, my heart screams.

“...so if you would all please give him your undivided attention.”

7:30 p.m.

Nice ad lib, I think, as Bridgett looks at me, curiously, with an expression not far from malice. You sneaky little..., her eyes say.

I slide out of my aisle seat and onto my right knee.

Reaching into my left coat pocket, I pull out the black jewelry box and, as I open it, declare in a surprisingly composed, confident voice:

“Will you marry me, Bridgett Maureen McCarthy?”

She has no reply, but gives a gasp, then hugs and kisses me. On cue, Todd snaps a photo.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” exclaims Patrick through the intercom.

So do the rest of the passengers, who applaud for what seems like an eternity, but is probably more like five or six seconds.

But who’s keeping track of time at a moment like this?

For the most part, the proposal went off as well as I dared dream. For example, a few minutes after my question, Bridgett actually said the word “yes.” As icing on the cake, fellow passengers—total strangers—congratulated us on their way off the plane.

There’s at least one thing I would do differently, however.

For starters, it might have been a pretty good idea to make sure my camera had film in it.

About three weeks later, after the much-anticipated roll still had not expired, I came upon an amazing discovery. There’s no film in this thing!

I was, you might surmise, a bit distracted in the days leading up to the engagement. While I regret we have no photos to mark the occasion, perhaps it’s all for the best: Now I can spin a tale for our grandchildren.

“Yep,” I’ll recall, rocking in my chair. “I was one calm, cool and collected fella…”