Monday Magazine - At The Mic
Well people, I did it, I took the plunge! Well, not the plunge. The pre-plunge plunge, I guess. What I’m trying to say is that this gentleman is now engaged! That’s right friends, I am well on my way to becoming Mrs. Mike Delamont – that’s how that works right?
It’s over ladies. This fine hunk of West Coast prime beef is off the market. And by “fine hunk of West Coast prime beef” I mean a man whose entire body looks like you shoved an adult size bean bag chair into a pair of beige pantyhose and then gave it a hair cut a la the Nazi youth.
Nobody tells you the stressful parts of getting engaged. Nobody! Asking a father’s permission is the same feeling as that moment you hit black ice on a highway. Once it begins it’s out of your hands and all you can do is steer into it and hope it doesn’t kill you. I had hopes it would be like a Hallmark card and that when I asked, one lone, manly tear would fall from his eyes so full of wisdom and experience. … Perhaps, looking back on it, I shouldn’t have asked him during a hockey game. Maybe then I wouldn’t have gotten the stressful dollar-store-card response of “Let me think about it.” Honestly I was surprised I even got that. Would you want your daughter to marry a Scottish drag queen? It takes a lot of explaining. To his credit, the next morning he gave me his blessing in an awkward and heartfelt speech that only a quiet and lovely man of so few words can do.
Next comes buying the ring. Did you know that the average Canadian man spends $5,800 on a ring? Neither did I. More importantly though, how do you know what size to get? A website told me that I should grab one of her rings and get it sized but she doesn’t wear rings. Do you know how uncomfortable it is for a man to buy a woman anything that has a size? It’s terrifying! If we buy her something too small she might feel fat and if we buy her something too big, it might mean that’s how we think she looks. We have no clue. We are monkeys in shoes leading the blind. We don’t know how to buy anything for a lady. Next time you’re at a drug store, take a look down the tampon aisle and look at the faces of the poor men sent there, coupon in hand having no idea what gentle flow means but assuming it has something to do with gas but are too embarrassed to ask.
At the end of the day, it turns out that none of this crap even matters. The dad says yes if you aren’t a douche canoe and, in my case, she didn’t even look at the ring when I asked because she started to happy cry. It’s amazing how much time we spend worrying for nothing. Until now all of my relationships have been the same. They all started with “Oh my God! You are SO funny” and ended with “Not EVERYTHING has to be a joke you know.” So was it worth the stress? It was. Would I do it again if I could? I would. Did the ring fit? It didn’t. Do I enjoy having my own personal memory of the moment I got on one knee and asked a beautiful girl to marry me? ... I do.