We went to W’s family reunion today.
It’s pretty much the same every year — picnic food like hot dogs, potato salad and chips; dollar store prizes; a family picture; catching up with everyone.
But this year I added a twist.
I asked W to marry me.
We had a commitment ceremony almost three years ago. I had proposed back then on one knee with a diamond engagement ring in my hand and rose petals in the background. Like any good butch should.
We had a shindig, sent out invitations, hired a band and a caterer, exchanged vows, smashed cake on each other’s faces.
It was the best we could do in 2011.
And then same-sex marriage became an option in our home state of Pennsylvania last month.
The m word scares the hell out of me. (We’re not talkin’ menopause or mudflap girls. Especially not mudflap girls.)
I’ve already tried it with a man.
And a woman (a civil union in Vermont).
I failed both times. Some people might take that as a sign.
Today, at the family reunion, I brought two dozen gourmet cupcakes. I had a special cupcake for W. Inside was a little plastic capsule with a special request. Marry me?
She said yes.
I was nervous this morning. My son said if anyone else accidentally got the special cupcake, I would have to marry him/her. So there was that.
And I was worried about pulling the whole thing off. What if W didn’t want a cupcake? Or wanted another flavor? What if the cupcake melted in the hot car? What if she said no?
But now? I’m not so nervous.
It feels right. It feels good.
Sure, I’m still scared. No one can see the future. What can be scarier than that? But I’m willing to take the leap with W.
I told W today that I would make an honest woman out of her yet.
What I’ve realized writing this post is she’s the one making an honest woman out of me.