After a week of being extra, French took me out for some chicken wings. Blissed out and covered in sauce I told him if I stroked out in the night to tell everyone I was really really happy. He politely declined, something about preferring to keep me around. But then he casually mentioned that as the planner in the family, he trusted I had everything buttoned up if a stroke came knocking. My brain began to reel over the legal and administrative sh*tshow that awaits French when I kick the bucket. And after the week I had, where I experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat with him at my side—thoughtfully supporting and hilariously celebrating—it became clear to me that if I wanted to take care of him as well as he takes care of me I needed to do some paperwork… A lot of paperwork. And as I stared at the ceiling, chewing on a chicken bone, I casually muttered, “We should just get married. We should get married for our five year anniversary in May.” As I realized what I just said, I dropped my gaze from the ductwork in the ceiling to across the table and sheepishly asked, “Did I just accidentally propose?”
With glassy eyes and reaching for my hand French responded, “Ya did. And before you can take it back I’m just going to say yes.”
