We all have ’em, and they come in all sizes and shapes.
Yesterday was the twenty-ninth anniversary of one of my Life-Changing Events: the day I lobbed a Proposal of Marriage at She Who Would Become The Missus.
It was at Courtlandt’s, a white-tablecloth joint restaurant in Houston that, sadly, no longer exists. But at the time, it - along with other High-End Eateries like Charley’s 517, Brennan’s, and Tony’s - defined the upper end of my personal dining experiences.
[Heh. Charley’s 517 - another restaurant that has since bitten the dust. Somewhere in the bowels of the Basement d’Elisson, I have a menu from Charley’s, vintage 1976 or so. The prices seem laughably modest, but by the standards of the day, a $3.50 appetizer was Heady Shit. Alas, panem et circenses are ever more costly as time passes...]
I can still hear the wise words of my mother, of blessèd memory, as she gently dispensed a bit of motherly advice, motherly advice that, for once, I heeded: “What in hell are you waiting for?” What, indeed? We had been seeing each other for over a year, I was making a decent living, and the only thing holding me back was Fear of the Unknown. I knew, deep in my heart, that it was time to Shit or Get Off the Pot.
Little did the future Missus know what I would be putting her through. Within two years, we would be living in the wilds of New Jersey - truly alien territory for her - in what would be the second of seven residences over the years. But she was - and is - a spunky lass.
She has put up with my Demented Shit for lo, these many years. And I love her more every day.
Happy Engage-a-Versary to We!