Everybody Loves Nerds

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Note:Sorry for the length of this post.  I got a little carried away. So this is the actual proposal story.  You’ll probably understand it better if you read parts 1 and 2 first.  And this time, we also have Jeff’s comments in italics.

I have to give Jeff some credit for managing to surprise me even within the tight limits of the countdown. By the time he proposed, the countdown had progressed to the point where I was keeping daily track of not just the number of days left, but the number of “effective days” (the number of days left excluding the holidays when we wouldn’t be in the same city), and the percentage chance that he would propose each day based on both the number of actual days and the number of effective days (I assumed an even probability distribution). Even so, it happened at a time I completely did not expect. I figured he might engineer some excuse for us to hang out the weekend before we left for vacation, or perhaps he would propose in Albuquerque, which was conveniently located in the middle of a desert. I had worried briefly that he would actually attempt to hit me over the head with something, but by then I was pretty sure I had convinced him that would be a bad idea. It never occurred to me that he would surprise me outside of a prearranged “date.”

Jeff: All these things had crossed my mind. But none were surprising enough. I ended up picking the day I did because she had the evening free, and it was prior to the last Sunday she would be in Boston before Christmas break. Got to show off that rock to the church friends!

Speaking of the diamond, I’m pretty proud of myself for finding it. It is a blue diamond, created in a laboratory using a high-pressure, high-temperature growth process. Its color is similar to that of a turquoise, but it’s much more sparkly. It took a while to find a jeweler who was willing to work with me on obtaining it; that’s another story for another day.

Thursday, December 11th, (37 days left, 20 effective days, 5% chance of proposal) was really ugly. Rain and wind most of the day, with pretty much no sunlight getting through the clouds. I was in the break room at lab microwaving some leftover chicken when he called me.

“Hey, sexy.” I call him that mainly because it makes him feel uncomfortable.

“I think you have the wrong number.” One of his usual responses to any accusation of sexiness.

“You’re the one who called me, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” Pause. “Got a few minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Go look out your office window,” he suggested.

The container of chicken was still lying open on the countertop, but I had a sneaking suspicion this was more important than the chicken. Leaving it to fend for itself, I strolled quickly to my office.

“Which window?” My office has several windows, and the visibility was really horrible outside.

“The one in front of your desk. By the train tracks.”

I could make out some pink balloons tied to the fence by the railroad tracks. The wind was giving them a pretty hard time, and they were blowing around like crazy.

Jeff: This was not the original plan. I had tied them to a string, and they were SUPPOSED to float up to just outside her fourth-floor window. But those balloons could barely get themselves a few feet off the ground, much less lift 50 feet of string. Note to self: next time use thread, and maybe 10 balloons.

“Do you see anything?” he asked again.

“I see something pink.”

“Are they pigs?” I guess he decided that the weather conditions necessitated some help in identifying the pink objects.

“They could be…” I mused.

“Are they… flying pigs?” Yes Jeffrey, I get the reference; you don’t have to completely spell it out for me.

Jeff: Riiiiight.

“Maybe I should go check it out.” Despite my sardonic mental commentary, my voice trailed off somewhat weakly.

“Yes, maybe you should,” he agreed.

A train passed by just then. I watched in horror as the pigs disappeared from view. When they emerged again, they were floating timidly about a foot above the ground, but at least they were still there. I grabbed my parka and umbrella and raced downstairs. It was actually a bit of a hike to get to the balloons. Jeff had tied them on the far side of the railroad tracks, so I had to run all the way around to where there was a gap in the fence. I also stopped a couple of times to take some pictures with my cell phone. I kept a lookout for Jeff as I approached the pigs, but seeing as there was no sign of him, the only thing I could do was free the pigs from their treacherous tethering point. Now that I was closer, I could see that they were two large Mylar balloons of happy pigs with large heads. Written on each side with permanent marker was a website. Somehow I managed to balance my umbrella over my shoulder, remove my gloves, and untie the balloons.

Surreptitiously carrying two giant pig balloons back into the office in my current state of mind was a bit of a challenge, but by avoiding eye contact, I managed to carry them into my office without inviting any questions. Satisfied that the pigs were safe, I looked up the website written on their flanks. It was a very simple, plain text html page.

Dear Livia,

I really think you want to go to Killian Court right about now.

Luv,

Jeff

Killian Court has some significance in our relationship. It’s the place where on his birthday, Jeff first told me he liked me, and on every anniversary we have a picnic there.

It wasn’t a long way to Killian Court from my office, but somehow it seemed necessary to run the entire way there. I remember a few fleeting thoughts while I was jogging down the infinite corridor. I remember thinking I was calmer than I should be, and wondered if Jeff would be disappointed if I wasn’t excited enough. And also, if this was a fake proposal, I would kill him.

There was some kind of art fair going on in Lobby 10. I impatiently weaved through all the vendors and pushed through the doors into Killian Court. Not surprisingly due to the rainstorm, there was no one in the courtyard except for Jeff, who sat waiting on a bench in the corner. He was wearing a wool hat and had his hands thrust in the pockets of his ski jacket. Next to him flew yet another pig. This one flew a bit higher, since there was enough of a patio to shelter it from the wind and rain. Moving rather unromantically in our bulky winter gear, we met each other halfway.

“Hi,” he said. “I was kind of inspired by all the puddles around.”

“Oh yeah?” I waited expectantly.

He made a big show of reaching for something in his front shirt pocket. Over the past few weeks, I had taken to patting down that pocket for jewelry every time I saw him. In he reached, and brought out — a folded up sheet of paper.

“I wrote you a poem.”

There was a bit of covering over where we stood, but the rain still blew in on us once in a while. I raised my umbrella to shield both of us as he unfolded the paper and began to read.

Were all the lakes and oceans gathered up
Into a single reservoir (or tub),
It would not be significant enough
To stand beside and there declare my love.

If I took all the asteroids in space
And balled them up into a giant mass
Like to a baseball in its quality–
Though larger far than e’er a baseball was–

And hurl’d this sphere on your head from above
A global conflagration would ensue.
But still ‘twould fail to fully represent
The ardor in my heart ‘pon thought of you.

So though these flying pigs are rather lame
And th’ doggerel I spout might make you ill,
The underlying sentiment is true:
I love you, Livia, and I always will.

My first reaction when he started reading was, “Is he being sarcastic?” After all, the Jeff I knew would say “Gross!” if I said anything romantic, and would write a poem more like this:

If I took all the asteroids in space
And balled them up into a giant mass
Like to a baseball in its quality–
Though larger far than e’er a baseball was–
And hurl’d this sphere on your head from above,
I would laugh, cuz it would be funny.

Jeff: Of course I wouldn’t write something like that! It’s not iambic pentameter!

But no, for once, Jeff was being serious. I realized that at about the second stanza and as soon as I did, the tear glands switched on. By the third stanza, drops were escaping down my cheeks, and by the time he was finished, I was full out bawling. You would have thought he was about to dump me.

He didn’t say anything after finishing the poem. He just reached into his back pocket (which I don’t usually search, being a well behaved young lady), and pulled out a box. From the box, he pulled out a ring, and holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger, knelt down on one knee.

“Livia King, I love you. Will you marry me?”

There are some things you have to know about our relationship in order to fully understand what this meant. In all the time we were dating, Jeff had never told me that he loved me. It hadn’t really bothered me. The phrase is too glibly used these days anyways. So I was fine with his caution, and I knew he was waiting for a time when I would know he meant it before saying so. However, I was determined not to say it before he did. By this point in our relationship, our careful skirting of the phrase had developed to the point of ridiculousness. We loved each other, we both knew it, but we ended our phone calls with the phrase, “I like you.” So there Jeff was, on one knee in front of me, having just told me for the first time in two and a half years that he loved me. And now was my turn to say something.

Unfortunately, I was still crying. Some girls can cry in a dainty and graceful manner, but I’m not one of them. I opened my mouth several times to say something but every time I just started hiccupping uncontrollably and had to close my mouth again. I stood there for a good twenty or thirty seconds while Jeff waited. Finally giving up on the whole speaking thing, I just reached my left hand toward the ring.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he objected indignantly. Okay, so that wasn’t going to work.

Jeff: Did she want to evaluate the ring first or something?

Over the past couple of months, I had thought a bit about what I would say to him if he proposed. One option was to slap him and say “Took you long enough.” Another one was to serenely respond, “Thank you for your offer. You’ll receive my reply within a week.” I was rather fond of the second one and even told a couple people, including Jeff, that I was going to do that. For some reason, nobody ever believed me.

Since the reaching for the ring thing didn’t work too well, it seemed like I’d have to talk. I took a couple of deep breaths and by holding my breath, managed to get a sentence out between hiccups.

“Well, I guess I don’t have to get back to you in a week.”

That was apparently good enough for Jeff. I reached out my left hand, which he accepted this time, and he slipped on the ring. Parka and all, I threw myself at him and resumed sobbing tragically into the arm of his ski jacket.

And that’s about it. The entire event had happened without anyone noticing, except perhaps one vendor from the art fair who watched us for a bit through the window. After a few minutes, I calmed down enough to call my mom from Killian Court. It was still too early to leave work, so we went back to our respective labs for two hours to stare at my new ring — I mean do research. I retrieved the chicken and put it back in the fridge. I didn’t really feel hungry anymore. Jeff admitted he hadn’t made dinner plans because he had been too busy getting the proposal together, so we went to Atasca in Kendall square because I had a coupon. Over dinner, I interrogated him about his Albuquerque trip and made him tell me everything that had happened. He then walked me home through the pouring rain. Because neither of us had planned for walking in the rain, we both got completely soaked on the way back. He called his parents from my place and stayed for a little bit more before we called it a night and kissed goodbye.

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One disadvantage of having a boyfriend who goes to a much more accessible church (i.e., reachable by the T rather than a shuttle) is that sometimes it’s tempting to go to his 11am service rather than get up early to catch the 9am church van to Lexington. On Saturday night, 11/22/08, I was having lazy thoughts after going to a choral concert with Jeff.

“I don’t feel like going to church tomorrow,” I hinted as he walked me home.

“So lazy,” he responded.

Wow, I must have been ditching church too often these days if even Jeff, who not-so-secretly wishes that I’ll go to Park Street with him if we get married, was trying to convince me not to play hooky. But my laziness won out over my sense of duty, and I slept in on Sunday morning.

There was an email from Jeff waiting for me when I woke up, saying he wouldn’t be able to make our usual Monday gym workout because he had too much work. Now from any other person, this email would not have been remarkable, but Jeff doesn’t plan ANYTHING more than thirty minutes in advance. Why would he be sitting there on Saturday night, thinking about working out on Monday and emailing me about it? I briefly considered sending him an email making fun of his sudden organized state.

At about 10:15, I called him to see if he wanted to meet at the T station. Hmm, his phone was off. He does turn his phone off at night, but he usually turns it on after he wakes up. Maybe he forgot. I waited until about 11, but his phone still kept on going straight to voicemail. Since the service started at 11, I decided to just meet him there.

It wasn’t until I was going up the escalator at Park Street station when it suddenly clicked. When does someone’s phone go straight to voicemail? I could think of three reasons: if his phone is off, if he’s on the subway, or… if he’s on a plane. And planes tend to take you on trips that take more than one day — so that if you’re leaving on Sunday morning, you may not be able to make it back for, say, a Monday afternoon workout. There was only one place Jeff would fly to that he wouldn’t tell me about. Granted, I was making pretty tenuous leaps in my reasoning, but by the time I stepped off that escalator, I had convinced myself that Jeff was en route to Albuquerque to see my parents.

I crept into Park Street’s service about 30 minutes late. As I had suspected, Jeff was not there. About halfway through the sermon, I received a text message. “Hey baby. Sorry I didn’t return your call. Did you go to Park St. by yourself? I am running errands. I’ll call you later.” Oh come on. Skipping church to “run errands”? The text was sent at about 12:30, which wasn’t enough time for someone to get from Boston to Albuquerque. He must be on a layover. And sure enough, when I called him after church, his phone was off again.

Maybe a good, well-behaved girlfriend at this point would have just let things go and waited to be surprised. But hey, Jeff doesn’t call me “the devil” for nothing. I spent the rest of the day making multiple calls to my parents and to Jeff, trying to get them to admit to something. My mom denied everything, but seemed more giggly and a lot more eager to get off the phone with me than usual. And Jeff would say nothing more than that he was in an “undisclosed location,” doing “this and that.”

Monday morning, Jeff’s phone again went straight to voicemail, so I entertained myself by writing away messages about how smart and all knowing I was. By Monday evening, he was back in Boston.

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