La libertad está en ser valiente.

I was…well, the best verb I can think of to describe it is “derping” around on the internet today. You know you read too many rage comics when you start using derp as a verb. Anyway, so I was derping around on the internet today and saw this girl talking about her boyfriend proposing to her. She didn’t like how he did it, but she loved him so she accepted. But the thing that drew my attention was that she then went on to describe her perfect proposal…which got me thinking.

I wanted to share mine, for whatever reason. Not that probably anyone will read it. Or care. But alas, I prevail. Now, I’m a writer, so bear with me; it’s going to be wordy.

I just walked into my suburban apartment (If I’m going to make this my ideal, I’ll be walking into my New York City-suburban apartment because obviously I’ll be a successful editor/publisher at Penguin.). As I sigh happily at being home and shrug out of my spring jacket, I notice the lilacs in the vase on the coffee table. I smile and just open my mouth to call his name when he comes out of our bedroom, holding his guitar. Now I smile wider; he knows how much I love it when he plays the guitar. He’s clean-shaven and well-dressed, my most ultimate version of him. He smiles tightly back at me, clears his throat nervously and asks me to have a seat. Giggling a little, I sit on the couch and turn to him expectantly. He takes a deep breath and begins to serenade me.

This is where things get a little iffy. I’m absolutely positive that I don’t want him to write me a song; I would definitely laugh because it’s too sappy. However, I’m torn between whether he should sing me a suitable, already released song or pick a song and change the words to fit this situation. I think I’d be thrilled beyond words with either.

I’ve been listening intently to the love song he’s singing and grinning at him, so grateful that I have such a wonderful person in my life when I realize what the song is saying. I gasp and clap a hand over my mouth, but not before a most unladylike squeal escapes. He laughs, mid-song, and has to start the line over again. He finishes the song as I become more and more excited - that feeling I get in my chest like it’s hard to breathe, but in a good way. Keeping eye contact with me (because I’m staring in absolute awe with my hand still over my mouth), he sets the guitar gently against an adjacent chair. Then he takes something out of his pocket…and slowly descends to one knee. It’s everything I can do not to scream with joy. He takes my hand away from my mouth and tells me everything a girl wants to hear: that I’m pretty and special and he wants to be with me forever.  Then he asks the final question. I’m crying by now, for sure, but I still manage to say yes. Grinning widely, an ecstatic laugh escapes as he slips the ring into place on my left hand. Suddenly, we’re both on our feet; half laughing, half crying, kissing, embracing. He murmurs that he’ll be right back and runs to the kitchen. I admire the ring, both up close and from a distance, and before I know it, he’s back with two flutes of champagne. He toasts, to us, and tells me he made reservations at fanciest restaurant in our little suburb. We kiss again and I run into the bedroom, both to find something to wear and call everyone I know.

That sounds nice, right? Not too much to ask, I don’t think. Just play me a song, have a bouquet of flowers I like, and a ring. Sigh. If only.