So I have several friends who actually read this blog (I hate that word). And maybe several is an exaggeration, but there are at least two. Or three. Anyway, they said to me, independently of each other, have you posted lately? And I said no, because I haven’t. I haven’t had access to the internet when I’m at home. My mom’s internet is down. And can you believe it, I still live at home. But before you condemn me let me explain. I lived with roommates in SLC before moving home. When I realized that I’d most likely be getting married, I decided to move home. I want to save money to pay off some stupid debt before I get married.
Anyway, no internet=no blog postings. There you have it.
You might be thinking, ha ha, stupid girl, moving home on the slender chance that she’ll get married to Stoker. Ha ha. Well, we ARE getting married. I have a ring and we’re working on a date. There you go, two of the criteria are met (in case you listen to Dr. Laura).
But seriously, Stoker proposed on Friday night on our way to St. George. The kid couldn’t even wait until we actually got there, which I guess was the original plan. The ring was burning the proverbial hole in his jacket pocket. I had no idea and I feel sort of guilty about it because I was in a strange mood, dazed, staring out the window at the scenery. I was kind of out-of-reach emotionally and mentally. He was sweet and adorable and loving and I had the attention span of a goldfish. My mind would settle on a distant house and then jump to the huge bird on the telephone pole. Poor Stoker. I’m sure he wondered if he was making a gigantic mistake. Will she always be like this, he probably thought. But I think that’s how life is. You choose to be with someone and how can a person always be 100% perfect? If someone wants to be with me for a lifetime, the odds of them being around when I’m in one of those moods are very, very high. And vice-versa. I get to be around Stoker even when he’s grouchy and moody and believe me, men can be as moody as women. One time Stoker told me he’d rather be with me when I’m in one of those moods, than not. And that’s a very good point. Usually I’d rather be with him when he’s in one of those moods, than not with him.
How it happened: Out of Salt Lake two hours, the sun is setting, we’re driving southwest and Stoker announces that he wants to get out and walk. He pulls off the freeway on some random exit with nothing around it except a bridge and the top of this mountain pass. His behavior is random and unexpected and I start to wonder if I know him as well as I think I know him. I ask him if he needs to go to the bathroom or something. No, he says. He just wants to walk and stretch his legs. Do I want to go with him? he asks. Is he going to kill me, I think to myself. You hear of things like that. Abandoned roads, distant hills with no one around for miles. I tell him no, I don’t want to go, I’m cold and a little frightened. He gets out of the car and opens my door. I want you to come, he tells me. Reluctantly, I get out and ask him if he’s going to kill me, and I say it jokingly, but he knows I’m serious. Nikki, he says. No. I just want to watch the sunset. We walk up the hill, though sagebrush and weeds and rocks and scattered, roadside litter. We stop at a fence and Stoker wonders out loud if we can get over the fence. No, let’s not, I say. He gestures to the sunset and says it’s pretty and then suddenly turns to me and says, "Nikki, I don’t need to stretch my legs and I don’t need to go the bathroom. I wanted to give you this,” and he takes a little box out of his pocket. Aha! It all makes sense. Now I realize why he’s being so weird. He’s not going to kill me. I cover his face in kisses and break his neck, squeezing him to death. I put the ring on.
Anyway, it was real adorable. He got down on his knee and the whole shebang and the ring is perfect and he’s perfect and sweet. It didn’t turn out quite how he imagined it, or how I imagined it, I got too excited to let him even make a beautiful speech or anything. But if you knew him . . . you’d understand. He’s a sensitive and gentle, like my grandpa. And I love that Stoker.
And now I wear this ring that means all sorts of things. It’s interesting getting used to wearing a ring. I’m going to get him one because who cares about tradition. All those conniving girls need to know he’s spoken for. Because isn’t that what my ring tells the world? They do it in Greece, why not America? Why not Salt Lake City, Utah?