Yesterday, the 29th of February, is ‘traditionally the day when a woman may propose to a man’.
(Short pause while I harrumph a great deal about the words ‘traditionally’ and ‘may’).
That’s what I did, four years ago, anyway. Proposed, that is. To H. And damn me if he didn’t say yes.
(To celebrate, H took me out to dinner last night, which was very sweet of him. Thai food, which I love. I was having a perfectly splendid time right up until the point where I cut my tongue on a prawn. Yes, I know, a prawn, I ask you. So this is why normal humans do not crunch up the tails of their butterflied king-sized prawns. Also, cutting your tongue, even a little bit, with a mouthful of lime-juice and chilli? Olympics of Stupid bronze medal).
Anyway, to return to the day I proposed to H, the dear man was so pleased (pleased! I was so flattered I nearly died) he had called nearly every person he’d ever met to announce it before sunset. So then I had to call all my family and friends and tell them before his lot got over jumping up and down and phoned my lot to share more jumping up and down. And while I was delighted that H was delighted, I was actually slightly peeved at having been forced to ‘tell’ so soon. I had wanted time to get used to the idea myself, that I, Rabid Feminist Woman, Ms Defiantly Anti-Marriage (and yes, I did keep my surname) had not only agreed to get hitched but PROPOSED.
Ah, well, it all worked out very nicely in the end, and H was exactly like a spaniel with a Whole! New! Chew-Toy! Chasechasechase wagwagwag! Which was adorable beyond all things.
This is all apropos, because my chart is taunting me by going all triphasic on my ass – something I have never done before at all, and H and I have agreed to the ceremonial opening of the 46th Pee-Stick of Doom tomorrow morning. And we had a little discussion, the other day, about how to tell people Any Interesting News, on the random off-chance we ever got any [insert standard bitter infertile disclaimer here]. Now, my inclination is to share here on the blog, obviously, as You Guys will understand any and all ungrateful-seeming freakouts and will go easy on the assvice, and get around to telling Family possibly some time in the nineteenth trimester. H is not comfortable with the idea of a random assortment of Internetty Anonymous knowing before Family.
I don’t want to tell people, have something go wrong, and have to untell people.
H doesn’t want us to be bereft of the support of family should something go wrong.
I say, what support?
And there we left it.