She Said, "You've Got to Be Kidding Me!"

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After snapping a few pictures at my request – knowing, of course, what lay ahead – Nichole and I drove out to Metuchen to catch our train to the city. We found a spot near the back of one of the cars, though not so far back that we didn’t have a window. The ride went well, Nichole sitting in the aisle on my right, her arm tucked into mine (I tried to keep her on my right most the night, as a certain box was in my left pea coat pocket). As we talked, every now and again we remarked on the flickering lights, without much concern. That was until, of course, the conductor came over the p.a.in Newark to inform us that our train was breaking down, and we needed to get off.

I slumped. There was little chance that another train would be coming soon. Though I held out hope that we might make our dinner reservation, the next thirty-minute wait and botched subway expedition proved that was simply not to be.

Loss number one.

We arrived at Rosa Mexicano, “the gold standard in fine Mexican dining,” fifteen minutes late and our table had already been given away. Jokes about eating at Burger King began to become timid suggestions as we heard the wait time was to be upwards of ninety minutes. Thankfully, by the grace of God and the kindness of their host, we were squeezed into a table on the ground floor. Squeezed. In predictable New York fashion, the long dinner tables had been spun 180 degrees so that more people could fit into the restaurant – but, that also means that Nichole and I sat two arm-lengths apart in a loud, overcrowded fine-Texmex restaurant. A less than prime setting for conversation.

Mark that down as a loss for me in research.

What’s worse – the conversation I had planned already happened two days previous, so I had absolutely nothing prepared. The bulk of our conversation over our rushed meal was light-hearted joking about what could have gone better on our date thus far.

At this point, I began to wonder whether or not to hold off for a brighter day. This wasn’t the perfect proposal evening I had in mind.

After finishing our meals at a slightly-faster than comfortable pace, agreeing to get dessert after our next appointment we crossed Columbus Avenue to arrive at the Lincoln Center for our opera.

As we strolled into the Metropolitan Opera house, I felt a kick of nerves turned in together with a brief bout of confidence. Nichole was lovely, as she always is, and I felt honored to have her as my date in such a classy setting. We strolled around for a little bit, trying to figure out at which level our seats were located. The chandeliers were beautiful – they looked like an explosion of glass with tiny stars in orbit around the chaos.

When the curtains rose, I tried to follow the story, but I was mostly lost in my thoughts. As the highly trained singers and actors performed a centuries old, painfully boring, abridged Mozart opera, I began to think through my next step – proposing in front of the Lincoln Center fountain. Then, as providence would have it, I was stung by a frustrating reality. There were 5,000 other people who would be flooding out of the opera doors, buzzing around the beautiful water display in the courtyard. Nichole had already intimated that she was not interested in a public proposal, and I unwittingly picked what might be the most public location besides perhaps a Yankees game.

So, as hearty operatic voices resounding off the heavily decorated walls around us, I resolved to delay the proposal until we got home that night. “It’ll make for a good story, at least,” I thought.

The performers took their final bow before a firmly seated ovation, the curtains closed and my heart began to race. Though I figured my best chance would not come until she was dropping me off that night (romantic, right?), I still wanted to keep my eyes out for an opportunity should it show up.

And, wouldn’t you know it – one did. We strolled about in the closed Grand Tier restaurant and found a quiet inlet. It was almost perfect – isolated, beautiful, immediately available. In a few of our thoughtful pauses, I almost turned to her… but I the moment wasn’t quite right.

The ground was damp when we walked outside from what must have been a timorous rainfall. We decided to walk around the courtyard for a bit – at first, in my mind, to simply enjoy the night. I was flattered that she would walk so leisurely with me with the promise of dessert lingering. Had the roles been reversed, I would not have been so patient. As we walked towards Julliard’s campus we came across a lipped, still water pond.

This, I thought, is the spot.

We made a slow lap around, her arm in mine, just talking about the scene. I, however, was also looking for an opportunity for privacy, as a few small parties of people were lingering about. There were no spaces in the first trip around the pond, so I asked if we might go around again. Sweetly, she consented.

As we passed along the southwest side of the lake, my love spotted an obscure structure in the near distance. It was tucked away in a silent corner, resting just outside the entrance to the New York Public Library for Performing Arts. Perfect. It was an alcove just north of the pond, lonely, clean and welcoming. We walked over to our new stature, noting that it was as odd and ambiguous as neighbor Princeton’s art is, and tried to name what we saw. She said she saw a spider. I have to admit, her assessment was right on the money, but I couldn’t propose to her in front of a giant metal arachnid. So, I tried my best to suggest an alternative: A hand playing a piano. A much better setting for a proposal, I thought, though perhaps not quite as accurate a description.

Our guessing brought us to the far side of the artwork, hiding us away beneath a low patch of light. This was the time. I put my hands on her arms, took a deep breath, and began to tell her of the ways I loved her. I would list them here, but I’d rather those be words for her to share, though if you ask me I’ll tell you. Then, at long last, I told her I loved her – something I hadn’t yet said.

She returned her, “I love you” in her soft warm voice.

I paused. I breathed. I breathed again.

“Nichole… Leigh… Smith,” I labored as I fumbled through my coat pocket for that little black box.

Dropping to my knee, I heard her exclaim, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” For a moment I wondered if I had done something terribly wrong – perhaps this was too soon or not something she really wanted. But, I saw the smile on her face and continued.

“Will you marry me?”

Clearly stunned and surprised, it took her a few moments before she answered. “Yes,” she said. I stood and we embraced; then we quickly walked over for a place to sit, at her request. After a few minutes of crying, giggling and hyperventilating, she looked at me with sudden joy and said:

“Do it again!”

I laughed at her request, but then stood and told her again of the ways I loved her. And then I asked her to marry me again. Thankfully, she said yes this time, too.

Nichole’s Blog records her perspective on our proposal night.