Monday, April 20, 2015
A little over a week ago, I woke up in a beautiful resort in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico. J and I were on day #3 of a much-needed, do-nothing-vacation. We threw on our swimsuits, wandered downstairs to La Palapa, the outdoor restaurant that had that quirky waiter we thought was really nice, and ordered our usuals - iced coffee and french toast for him, cappuccino and scrambled eggs on toast with an avocado for me. We discussed the plans for the day: swimming, laying out, maybe we should hit the gym? Nachos for lunch. Definitely nachos.
With stomachs full and veins fully caffeinated, we walked the 25 feet to the Balinese bed we'd claimed as our own for the day. Its giant thatched roof provided the shade he so desired, its giant pillows allowed me to set my own personal record for Ultimate Laziness. It was about 10am and already a scorcher. I grabbed a book and announced I was going to finish it in the pool; there were giant tiled "recliners" built into the side of the pool that allowed you to lay in the water but still keep your arms dry enough to hold a book.
With about one chapter left of Like Water For Chocolate, a fairy tale-like story set in Revolutionary Mexico that I'd gotten from the library specifically for this trip, I decided it was time for a mimosa. Because why not? I signaled Alfredo, the tireless pool attendant, and almost instantaneously one appeared in my hand.
Before long, I finished both the book and the mimosa. While I could have stayed on that lounge chair all day, it truly was hot and incredibly sunny and I was attempting to kind of sort of monitor my sun exposure because I really didn't feel like dealing with a sunburn on vacation. So I headed back to the Bali bed.
I crawled all the way to the back of the bed and had JUST laid down when J said, hey can you do me a favor and get my shirt from the beach bag? I grumbled, oh, ok, sat back up, and started rummaging through the bag.
I don't see a shirt, I said. It's under your hat, he said. Where under my hat, I said. Keep looking, he said.
Then my hand landed on a small square velveteen box. Now, I'm pretty dense when it comes to most things in life, but there isn't a 30-something-middle-class-white-woman in America who wouldn't immediately know with every fiber of her being what was inside that box.
I pulled it out of the beach bag. I started shaking. I started crying. And then I started ugly crying. With trembling hands, I opened the box. Inside was a beautiful diamond ring.
Mary Spadoni, will you marry me? he said.
I nodded, because it was all I could do. He slipped the ring onto my finger. I continued to ugly cry because if there's one thing I know how to do, it's to ruin a beautiful moment by being so ridiculously and emotionally overwhelmed with happiness that I start ugly crying.
Is that a yes?? he asked. I laughed. Yes! I sputtered. He laughed. We kissed.
And then I realized that my nose was all runny from the crying so he had to go get napkins from the pool bar, and then I had to pee because of the mimosa, but I eventually calmed down and we signaled to Alfredo that we were in need of some celebratory cocktails and in a giant thatched-roof Bali bed in Mexico we toasted to the beginning of a bright new future together.