pinkhairthing

Yes, it’s true, Pinky is betrothed. The date is set at a loftily and ridiculously far-off May 30, 2004. How did it happen? How indeed? And what will become of my romance with the hot guy from Alias? Alas, he is crushed. In a deeply soulful and longingly gazing kind of way. Ah, well.

Would you believe, dear readers, that my love rented the Rose Planetarium for a late night show and wrote my name in the stars? Would you believe we returned home to find our apartment filled with rose petals? What if I told you that he proposed at the top of the Empire State Building on the first full moon after the equinox? On a carriage ride through Central Park? In a dream? On the Staten Island Ferry? On a bicycle built for two?

What if I told you that after a long and illuminating talk with an old friend I told Matt that I was maybe coming around to the whole marriage thing, with reservations, and what if I told you that he too thought it might be kind of nice and everything and what if we thought about it for a few days and talked about it for a few days and flew to Milwaukee and bought a ring and got engaged on Christmas morning, in front of the tree in a sunlit room and told my family and rented a hall and flew home to tell all of you?

Which would be the most plausible? What if Matt carried a love letter I wrote him five years ago in his wallet? What if we fall asleep every night arm-in-arm? What does it mean to you to be married? What does it mean for us?