The day I proposed was meant to be perfect, or at least that was the plan.
We started the evening at a cozy Italian restaurant—well, it was supposed to be cozy. As luck would have it, the place was undergoing a remodel. There were ladders tucked in corners, plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling, and a faint smell of fresh paint mingling with the garlic in the air. Of course, the website said nothing about this little renovation surprise, but hey, I was determined to make the best of it!
Despite the unexpected construction vibes, the food made up for it. She ordered the cheese ravioli, and the look on her face when she took that first bite said it all—pillowy pasta filled with ricotta and smothered in a rich, velvety sauce. Meanwhile, I had the chicken marsala, perfectly tender with mushrooms and a savory wine sauce that practically melted in my mouth.
Our waiter, though, deserves special mention. I’m convinced he might’ve been a Russian spy. With his thick accent and a suspiciously smooth way of suggesting menu items, it felt like his mission was clear: infiltrate, establish trust, and manipulate us into ordering dessert. And guess what? It worked. Next thing we knew, we were sharing a cheesecake sitting in a pool of strawberry syrup that was almost too good to be true, leaving us wondering if we’d been swayed by some kind of dessert espionage.
Dinner that night was a rare, blissful escape from the usual chaos of home. There were no interruptions from our 10-year-old and 13-year-old, who normally excel at either arguing or pushing our buttons at exactly the wrong moments. Instead, we had a peaceful, uninterrupted conversation—the kind of grown-up talk that doesn’t involve mediating sibling squabbles or answering a thousand questions.
The night had all the elements of a fairy tale—good food, amazing company, and a sense that something big was about to happen. After dinner, I took her to the historic Parthenon. Not Greece, but Nashville's own full-scale replica. This wasn’t just any night at the Parthenon—it was a private event, a candlelight symphony tribute to Adele. Yeah, I know, I knocked it out of the park with that one.
The setting was perfect. The soft glow of candles lit up the room, casting long shadows and creating a magical atmosphere. The music was flawless, each note ringing out as if Adele herself had sent a team of angels to play her greatest hits. It was intimate, romantic, and exactly what I envisioned for the moment I’d ask her to marry me.
I planned to propose after the concert, in the midst of this magical vibe. But then, the lights came on—a glaring, mood-killing fluorescent wash over everything. Any thought of getting down on one knee vanished. To top it off, I had paid for a professional photo to capture this monumental moment, only to receive a Polaroid. An actual Polaroid. The kind you shake, like it’s 1995. I could only laugh at my luck.
So, I decided to take Plan B—propose outside under the stars as we walked through the park near the Parthenon. It was going to be intimate, quiet, just the two of us and the night sky. But, of course, because this is my life, the heavens decided to open up, and within minutes we were caught in a torrential downpour. We ran, laughing and soaked, making a mad dash for the car.
And that’s when it hit me. This was us. Perfectly imperfect. Soaked to the bone, laughing our heads off, and trying to catch our breath. There, in the car, still dripping from the rain, I pulled out the ring and asked her to marry me.
Everything about that night was out of order, just like our life together. We’d bought a house, blended our families, and now we’re expecting a baby. So, why would my proposal be anything less than unpredictably, beautifully chaotic? It wasn’t how I planned it, but in that moment, it felt exactly right.
It wasn’t the grand, cinematic moment you see in movies, but it was real—our kind of real. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. 💑
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