Rules of, er, for engagement

I'm a man of many rules. I establish personal rules for just about everything. They differ from subject to subject, but once established, they're consistent. Most go unspoken. Many, I suppose, aren't even noticed by those around me. They simply become who I am.

So when it came time for me to consider one of the most momentous events in my life -- my marriage proposal to Greatest Girlfriend Ever -- I had to have rules.

It was only natural. I had never seriously considered such a thing before GGE entered my life. In fact, I used to say I was going to wait for a woman to propose to me. GGE changed all of that. By last summer I was already considering my proposal options. Rule number one -- make sure she's Ms. Right For Me -- had been accomplished.

My rules for the act of proposing unfolded over time. Whatever I did, it had to have my signature all over it.

Nothing flashy. Nothing elaborate. Nothing cliché.

That meant no stadium scoreboard proposal. No ring in a restaurant dessert. No hot-air balloons, horse-drawn carriages or weekends at a bed-and-breakfast.

I had to pick the right time, too. It couldn't be at Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's or Valentine's Day. All are too predictable.

I had to come up with something uniquely us. A time and a place that somehow was symbolic of what defines GGE, me and our relationship.

I had already done my ring shopping, which, in typical me fashion was exhaustive in itself, so I didn't have to worry so much about that. I had an idea of what she would like and what she might expect. I went with that idea and exceeded it.

Despite brainstorming for months on the how, when and where I would propose, nothing I came up with seemed quite apropos. It didn't help that I didn't seek anyone's input. Only my contact at the jewelry store knew of my intent. I was completely on my own.

Then, finally, as we approached the two-year anniversary of our relationship, I devised my plan. GGE knew I wouldn't be the kind of guy to propose on any of the holidays. And I had successfully Heisman'd her for months, leading her to believe I wasn't ready to propose yet. So I knew I would have the element of surprise -- another of my requirements -- on my side.

There was a chance, albeit slight, that she might think I would propose on the date of our anniversary. Two years, to the day, would be something she might have thought possible of me. And it was. But I had to out-think that possibility.

I chose the date before our anniversary -- January 8 -- because she wouldn't expect it. It satisfied my rule of surprise. It satisfied my rule of additional significance -- because the year we met was a leap year during which we gained an extra day to be together, our anniversary could be said to be on Jan. 8 instead of Jan. 9. Finally, it satisfied my rule of practicality. She had to do training presentations at work during the week and the distraction of engagement might have interfered too much had I waited another day.

All that was left to decide was the location. It really was a no-brainer for me. Neither of us is the type who would want to share such a private moment in a very public setting. I had to make sure we had the moment to ourselves, in a special place.

I chose a footbridge along the trail I run and we bike. It's situated almost perfectly between her house and mine. It's quiet, secluded -- surrounded only by wildlife and a view of the Minneapolis skyline some 10 miles in the distance -- and beautiful in the winter. Mother Nature helped my cause by dusting us with a couple of inches of snow, enhancing the setting even more.


All I had to do was get her out for a walk along the trail. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem because she enjoys walking, but I wasn't confident I could get her to go for a walk into the middle of nowhere after dark on a chilly winter night. And I was afraid that if I suggested we go for a walk -- something that I rarely do -- I might raise suspicion as to my plan.

So I planted my bait a day earlier. I told her that I ran past a fox den during my run and I noticed some fox puppies. Then I dropped the subject. When it started snowing the next day -- on THE day -- we both remarked how beautiful the snow made everything look. I knew then that my plan would work.

She actually suggested we take the walk. She even wanted to bring my dogs with us -- not according to my plan, but it was only fitting that they be there, I guess. In keeping with my diversion, I suggested we take the camera, just in case we see the foxes. She complied. With the ring comfortably secured in my jacket pocket, we conversed as we normally do while we walked.

Then we reached the bridge. Funny, I hadn't been nervous until that time. Suddenly, my heart was racing. It was all I could do to muster coherent sentences. I don't think she noticed. If she did, she likely thought I was simply cold or distracted by my dogs' inexplicably good behavior.

We stopped midway through the bridge. Well, actually, I did; she was unaware of my plan and proceeded to keep walking. I had to think swiftly of a reason to keep her on the bridge. Ah, yes, the camera. Even though there was no sign of a fox -- a fact she discovered all too quickly -- we could take a self-portrait on the bridge, amid the fluffy, white snowflakes.

It worked. After taking several photos of ourselves, I knew I had my moment. Proposal was the last thing on her mind when I dropped to a knee, grabbed her hand and revealed the ring in my pocket.

She was, I believe, shocked as much as surprised. She didn't hesitate to say yes, but afterward, as we walked back to my house, she was speaking no more coherently than I had been minutes earlier.

Everything unfolded according to my plan. Despite the rules, I somehow managed to not only surprise GGE, but also impress her. The setting and the moment were perfect. For us.

Just like my rules said they had to be.