“So what are you and Boyfriend doing for Valentine’s Day?” K asks in that wonderfully expectant way women have of talking about a holiday constructed around commercially-cultivated links between love and expensive jewelry. Swallowing a gulp of ginger ale (the arctic temperatures and unrestrained germ explosions turning every vodka tonic into a possible bubonic plague), I consider how to answer; it’s a question that can hold plenty of weight, particularly when asked by a single friend in her late twenties. The preferable response will have the right balance of vicarious fodder and humble appreciation for the luck that found me attached on a day that can shred female self-esteem.
After a moment I grin, pleased in spite of it all that I’m able to give an impressive answer. “We’re actually going to Paris for a long weekend. We’ve both been dying to go for a while, and Boyfriend found a good flight, so we said, ‘Why not?’”
Her brows shoot skyward and her pupils expand. “Paris!? That’s so romantic!”
“Yeah I can’t wait,” I admit, still grinning. “We’re gonna stuff our faces all day with rich food and good wine, just be totally decadent. We both really need the break, to spend time together.” Even saying the words feels indulgent, as if we were impish eighth graders plotting a getaway from gym class to hit Ben & Jerrys.
“Paris on Valentine’s Day, huh,” she clucks, turning her head and staring pointedly at me. “I’ll bet I know what THAT means.”
“Uh, what?” I ask, slow to pick up on the screeching turn our conversation is taking.
“Oh come on. Your boyfriend wants to take you to Paris on Valentine’s Day, and you don’t think it’s because he’s planning something?” Her voice rises an octave as she raises her left hand and jiggles her ring finger.
Glancing around for an escape route - suddenly I want to tear out of the bar, brave the frozen East Village tundra, anything to get away from this line of questioning - I feel acid erupting in my stomach. There are few absolute certainties in this world, and even fewer that I’m aware of, but one thing I do know beyond a doubt is that Boyfriend has no intention whatsoever of proposing to me in Paris. Until this moment, as I cringe under K’s piercing gaze and wiggling finger, it hadn’t occurred to me that this was a problem.
“Uhh, we, uh, actually we aren’t really talking about that yet. We just want to go have fun,” I stutter, not sure if I should feel embarrassed or indignant or both.
“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” K exclaims. “I mean come on - you’ve been together for years!” The “Drop the subject now, I’m begging you” vibes that I’m mentally lobbing at her clearly aren’t doing much good. So much for ESP.
Sweating under what feels like an entire society’s worth of scrutiny boring down on my relationship, I curse myself for bringing up the subject, or, at least, being so unprepared for this direction. As it is I’m shieldless, the drawbridge wide open for all the needling little insecurities to ride in, trumpeting their familiar tunes. “Is there something wrong with you, that you have this romantic getaway planned and he doesn’t want to propose?” “Does this mean he doesn’t really love you?” “Is he just biding his time with you?” “Are you a moron for not wanting to get married now?” “Isn’t that what all women are supposed to want?” “Shouldn’t you be more upset about this?” “Or maybe you shouldn’t be upset at all?” “Is it a sign?” “Does it MEAN something???”
“Mel? You feeling ok? You look a little sick there.”
Snapping away from the onslaught, I notice that K is eyeing me with mild concern as she reapplies her lip gloss, completely unaware of the anxiety Tsunami her question triggered.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine. So what happened with your date last night?”