Last Romance

“Men always want to be a woman’s first love. Women have a more subtle instinct: What they like is to be a man’s last romance.”
~Oscar Wilde


John proposed to me on Valentine’s Day. The day has extra significance to us- it’s not just another sappy holiday like it is to the rest of you schlubs. We do something extra special, like order in Italian food and watch DVRed episodes of 30 Rock on the TV.

John had big plans on that Valentine’s Day. He had procured reservations at a restaurant on picturesque shores of Lake Ontario, where he was going to pop the question and then fill me full of chicken marsala. (Yum.) He had tickets to a local show at Geva Theater, where we were to cuddle and not actually pay attention to the performance because we would be duly intoxicated by the presence of one another and therefore unable to focus on anything else.

The ring had been burning a hole in his pocket for a good week, I believe.

I ruined his plans by coming down with strep throat and the most horrific sinus infection I have ever had. I spent that February break from college in a feverish daze on my mother’s couch, probably causing my family members more pain than I was actually in.

John couldn’t wait. He threw out his initial plans, sent my family out of the house, knelt down next to the couch and asked a make-up free, pathetic excuse for a girl who could no longer breathe through her nose to marry him.

She said yes.

I made a valiant effort to revive myself by ingesting Advil and insisting that John take me to the restaurant on the lake. I ate about two bites of chicken. I recall that it was an extremely painful two bites of chicken. We left rather quickly and went back to the couch and watched a cheesy movie.

I spent the rest of the week on that couch, sick as a dog, staring at the diamond on my hand and smiling stupidly.

(Best Valentine’s Day ever.)