She had no clue that I planned the proposal in San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge, in the heart of Chinatown, stuffed with savory dumplings, deliciously warm shomei, and fresh,
crispy, fortune cookies, which I would never have known how to ask her unless some old Chinese man pointed us in the right direction, his quivering voice simply letting out, “Fortune cookie. This way.”
After fake-arguing about the overly priced pieces of sugary flowery Chinese crescent-shaped dough, I pulled the man card by seizing her hand and whisking her away to the breathtaking view of Marin headlands; this epic scenery of a place brimming with a Narnia of sentiments replete with nebulous blankets of mist creeping over the cinematic horizon, throngs of awe-struck men, women, and children, and my beautiful soon-to-be-fiance edging her way to the precipice, taking out her iphone, snapping 50,000 pictures with an I-can’t believe-how-beautiful-this-place-is-so-we-need-to-take-another-selfie attitude; an attitude that was forcing me to hunt for about “twenty (maybe fifty)” nets to imprison all the excited monarchs escaping from my insides because I had “other things” on my mind: my pumping heart, my sweaty palms, my racing eyes, darting this way and that, searching for Winston and
Andrew hiding out in the bushes with their cameras while Winston was blowing up my phone with text messages screaming, “The fog! We need to take the shot!” Crap.
Here we go…Once again, I arrested her hand as we hurtled down the hill and bounded over the railing, inching our way towards the now fog-covered mound in front of the resplendent San Francisco Bridge, a view I quickly released as my quivering hand clutched the elephantine box in my pocket:
The ring. Still there!
But the fog; this stupid I-can’t-see-jack-diddly-and-I-know-Winston-and- Andrew can’t-either fog (Winston more so because of his slanty eyes) is ruining everything! It’s now or never. So, standing there alone with Ellie on the solitary peninsula, I spun her around -this love of my life, soon-to-be-wife, confidant and supporter – and gazed into her gorgeous emerald eyes as my quivering lips finally uttered the words:
“This fog…(it’s ruining everything)…it’s…uh…. symbolic of you and me.”
Me: “Um…Yeah, it’s like you and me. Alone. Right now. In the fog.”
Me: “…Let’s eat our fortune cookies.”
Quick-reading the tiny message, I pulled out the elephantine box from the depths of my $10 China jeans as my trembling right knee finally buckled, noodling to the ground, and once-for all mustered, “Ellie, will you make me the happiest man in the world by becoming my wife?”
The rest, as they say, is “history.”