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The Cost of a Proposal Has Increased Since the Days of Kneeling

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The people of today are making my life intolerable. Back in the day, it was easy. On Valentine’s Day, I could get away with a box of chocolates; on our anniversary, a candlelit dinner, and on her birthday, a sparkly present would do. These days, my kids routinely beat me at my own game. For more information, click here.

When my son said he ed the car for his anniversary, I should have known something was wrong.

A question: “What anniversary?” He replied, “You’ve only been going out for a month.” How naive of me. Since then, things have only gotten worse.

Now, I’ve always been known for going all out for special occasions, whether it be an anniversary or a birthday (see separate blog on my site), but if a month-long celebration requires two weeks of planning and a mortgage, I’m not sure what’s left for later. That’s why we should talk about asking someone to marry you. So you got down on one knee with a shiny ring in your right hand and hoped for a happily ever after (hey, some guys will believe that!). The response was, “You don’t know what about, Dad,” and my son went on to tell me the following tale:

His coworker and friend, Mike, proposed to her. To implement his plan, he rented a secluded chalet near the water and started making arrangements weeks in advance. Mike and his girlfriend Mary took off on an unknown weekend getaway in a borrowed sports car. Their mutual friends had given Mary plenty of clues that Mike was planning to propose that weekend, so she was primed and ready when the car pulled into the chalet’s driveway. When she entered the bedroom, she was taken aback to find that it consisted of a bed and a vanity. Nevertheless, she put on her best smile and agreed to let Mike drive her to an up smiled besta table in the corner; the light was low. As they enjoy their champagne, a violinist plays a romantic tuna he rings to be presented with the dessert, thank as they want their champagnes to her extensive viewing of chick flicks, and sure enough, the master chef, on purpose, brings up to their table a flaming souffle. Flawless. Mike gets to his feet and asks, “Mary?” She tremblingly says, “Yes,” signaling it is time to dance.

After an hour of dancing at a local disco, they return to the car. Then the lights go out, the stage is flooded with a spotlight, and their song blasts over the PA system. They performed their own take on the Samba, and the crowd went wild. They dance without enthusiasm. It would have been so touching if the DJ hadn’t returned to his electronic trance and ruined the mood.

When Mike suggests, “Let’s go back to the chalet,” Mary, who is now fuming, would much rather go home. However, Mary is a good sport and agrees to return to the chalet with Mike. Mike pulls over to a seaside bench with her on the return trip. They listen to the waves crash and watch the stars together. Fireworks burst into the sky seemingly out of nowhere. Mary leans closer to Mike as the noises subside, but Mike has already gotten to his feet and is yawning. Mary, who had practiced kickboxing in high school, holds back from physically harming him. Seriously, what a sportsman. Finally, they return to the cabin.

He instructs her: “You go ahead; I have to get some cash from the ATM.”

As she walks into the room, she sees hundreds of balloons of various colors, many of which have numbers painted on them. Tears well up in her eyes. If only things were so easy. She must first complete the tasks indicated by the numbered balloons. There’s a red one that leads to a blue one that leads to a… well, you get the idea. After popping twenty balloons, she reaches the one with the message to send Mike down on one knee with the ring. You might gasp, “Isn’t that romantic?” but it could be if you don’t have a heart attack on the way.

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