Forever Comes Fast Enough (Part I)

OhmyGodI'mfriggingengagedtobemarried!

That's right - on December 23rd, I proposed to Jessie Rutter at the Hotel Hershey. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. You have no idea how much I wanted to write about it in the three weeks leading up to that momentous night -- the words "panic-stricken conniptions" have never been more apropos -- but seeing as it's nearly impossible to surprise Jessie as it is (and writing about it would have only made it that much harder, seeing as she reads this blog), I had to wait, naked and wordless, until afterwards.

You should know that Jess is afraid of this post. I am too, I guess, though not as much as I was when I started writing it on January 3rd. The problem with trying to say big things is that it takes a long time to work up the nerve to put them out in the world, and because I'm only interested in telling the truth, finding a way to communicate that lovingly and patiently takes time.

First, to answer the three questions that you have:

i. We don't have a date yet, though there is some talk of June 2008 (and by "some talk" I mean that's what I've been telling everybody)
ii. It was adorable and perfect. Details below.
iii. Anything other than yellow and green.

On reflection, I probably picked the most intense time of year to ask her to marry me. Jess and I reached the end of the week exhausted by family and all the running-around of holiday life. Only days afterward, Hershey was a faded purple sunset, the chocolate white with air and time. If I ever see another piece of generic red wrapper candy again it will be too soon, because I ate about 20lbs of it over Christmas, needing the sugar to keep up with all the running-around we did. I have, in reality, three families, and she has her one, so there was nary a moment we were not nut-rolling or hamming our way to caloric Elysium, and when we weren't with family we were enjoying the company of good friends who, simultaneously, fuel us and cut the brake lines as we careen towards the brink of madness.

Highlights of the holiday included a snazzy Christmas party on the 27th at my apartment in Squirrel Hill. The times I love Jessie the most are when we are hosting an event and talking about our past, both of which we got to do that night, surrounded by the living past in dear friends from high-school as well as new additions since. I feel wealthy when I'm with Jessie. I feel stronger and smoother, something polished after a long time roughly-hewn. And despite the stress of the holiday, I realized that I was glad something had moved, glad something had changed between us.

As always her family was warm, welcoming, and forgiving. My fuse has gotten shorter and shorter since I found a grey hair in my eyebrow, and now all of a sudden I have a sense of the ticking clock and no longer have time for idiocy, narcissism, or mundanity, all three of which I just experienced in thinking about this sentence. This step on the rope bridge that is my life has revealed some of the rotted planks that I've so far pretended were sturdy. I find myself discovering weakness where I didn't know it existed, and so, for the first time in my life, have actively sought help. I already feel a little better. Coming back to these paragraphs two weeks later, I find myself editing out some of the angst.

One of the images that encouraged me to ask Jess for her hand (does anyone else find this at all cryptic?) was that of her family and mine hanging out, milling about each other's houses, talking of life and laughing, holding nieces and nephews, etc... If there was a family that was perfect in its contrast to the excesses of my own, it would be the Rutters and their acerbic practicality. Things that my family would stress over, the Rutters, effortless, laugh away. They've taught me that once you laugh at something, you can manage it, control it. If you never give it the time to get serious, it is that much easier to take seriously.

The Proposal

The Hotel Hershey is situated atop a hill in Hershey, PA, home of the world-famous chocolate factory that makes, well, just about every piece of chocolate in America [for more on this place, see my post, "It's Moolicious!"]. This was my first time in the hotel, a spacious, five-star resort in the middle of Pennsylvania. It's a grand structure: white stone with tasteful embellishments, a green slate roof that stretches the length of the building. At one end is a tower, and in front of the building a great upraised plaza of stone. I wanted to hold a formal ball on that stone, twirl on its smooth surface. Jess and I arrived around 5 o'clock and had the car valet-parked for five dollars (ugh). This was before I cleaned my car out last week, mind you, and so it was embarrassing as hell to have to point out to the valet which piles of crap were coming in with us and which ones were staying put (example: "No, no, you can leave the rotted pile of french fries on the floor.") Who valets a Honda, anyways? That's like dry-cleaning underwear. I will keep my five dollars, thank you. Perhaps I shall buy a lemonade.

I don't have a garment bag, so my suit was hung rather haphazardly on the handle in the back seat. The valet had one of those fancy wheel-carts, the kind you see in movies about New York, and as he loaded our "luggage" (two garbage bags full of gifts and two suitcases), I found myself wondering about just precisely how trashy our cart looked with my un-ironed suit hanging limp on cheap hangars, a rolling billboard that said "These Poor Bitches Do Not Belong." I realized that if I hadn't lost him at the fries, he was long gone by the wrinkled pink shirt, and so, when he wheeled the cart towards us in the lobby, it was all I had to acknowledge that it was ours.

In the lobby were two people in costume as candy bars, an odd contrast to the gilded gold chairs and fancy carpet. Jess and I of course demanded a picture with them, as we seek out the ghetto in all of life's moments. The coolest thing ever was a table set up to the left of the concierge that had two silver containers full of hot chocolate and a tray piled high with cookies. They actually had someone manning it, and he scooped marshmallows and chocolate chips on top of the hot chocolate before handing it to you, smiling. Hello to you too, Hershey.

The valet passed our cart off to a well-dressed young guy with blond hair, who escorted, without comment, my flailing undershirt and garbage bags to our room. He made small-talk on the way, ironically calling us "Mr. and Mrs. Rutter," to which I hurriedly shot my eyes to the floor. When we got to the room on the third floor, he offered a tour. The room was slightly larger than my bedroom in Squirrel Hill and with a better comforter. I found his information illuminating, by which I mean I wish I had the $4 we tipped him back. I would never have found the ice-bucket without him. Thank God he was there to show us how to work the shower. You dry-clean, too? Phenomenal. I found myself, as he was talking, wondering what he was really thinking in those moments. Was he silently plotting our deaths (suitcase-man in the hotel room with the ice bucket?) Was he counting animals? Was he wondering how someone without a garment bag could afford a five-star hotel? What is life for the suitcase-guy at the Hershey Hotel? I wonder if he goes home and practices with his own house, giving tours to his dog. "And here is where your bowl is. When you want some water, just paw at it like this. Checkout is at 11."

After our tour, Jessie and I got dressed for our massages, which were at six. I didn't exactly know what to wear, seeing as technically we were supposed to be naked, so I just put something on that I could take off and we headed to the spa.

Now, I don't about you, but I had never gotten a massage before. I had never been to a spa before. I'm not sure I could have spelled half of the things this place offered, let alone afforded any of them. And yet, after my experience there, I cannot WAIT to get another massage as soon as humanly frickin' feasible. That rubdown changed my life...

(to be continued)