We got engaged six years ago today. That means six years ago right now I was falling for what was, in retrospect, an elaborate ruse to get me to the location for the big event (our favorite bar, for the record).
The ruse involved a series of emails from two friends, Heather and Marc — something about a belated birthday drink for Heather and having Marc stop by with his newborn (in a bar — how did I not find this strange? Pre-mom-days, I guess this seemed acceptable). Because Marc just happened to be in the neighborhood.
Before you wonder if I am, in fact, that stupid, I remember being slammed at work and not having the mental capacity or attention span to deal with the frenzy of details about this meet up. Plus, who was I to ever pass up a night at Divine Bar?
After work, I rushed to buy Heather a gift (I still remember it was a very cute bag, if I do say so myself), went home to feed the dog and jumped back in a cab to head to Divine. I called my dear friend Nicolette from the cab to sanity check the “baby in the bar” bit and even cautiously said something to her voice mail about “I wonder if this is something else…” And then I noticed that I didn’t especially like what I was wearing and wouldn’t it be a shame *if* we were getting engaged, to not have liked my outfit for any photo ops?
To appreciate this whole story, you have to know that this engagement was a long, long time coming. Almost five years, to be specific. Five years of roller coaster blissful make ups and terrible break ups, of “I’m not ready” (I won’t say who — OK it was him), of limbo and all kinds of craziness. But we had just moved in together, finally, under the strict condition that this engagement was forthcoming. So to have ended up caught off guard, almost, was quite a feat on behalf of the cast of characters involved.
We loved Divine Bar for the history we had there. For the amount of time we spent there, we were practically owed a financial stake in its profits, as far as I’m concerned. The good mix of bad (until you’re slightly drunk) 80s and 90s music, the fun decor tucked away in an old brownstone, the big big wine list and the familiarity of going there so many times — first with colleagues for office happy hour, then on endless dates, and then separately all those times when we weren’t dating for weeks or months.
And there in Divine Bar on that particular night was not my dear friend Heather to receive her cute bag, nor my dear friend Marc with a bar-hopping infant. There was P, at a table, with two glasses of our favorite Pouilly Fuisse (#38 on the menu), which we had ordered a billion times before. I knew then what was going to happen but my nervousness had me pacing, looking for Heather and Marc, checking my phone, leaving them messages — until, finally, P said the thing that made it all really sink in.
“They’re not coming.”
And out came that little box and all the wonderful words that followed and me, with my head in my hands, in disbelief that this moment had come. And a “yes,” and applause from everyone watching and, on cue, champagne out of nowhere from the knowing staff. And just a rush of dizziness and bliss that you get only so many times in your life.
Truly divine.
