When tinfoil hats produce golden proposals

For those who like to wear the tinfoil hats and conjure up wacky intrigue, it was a conspiracy of sorts beyond any doubt. There were many abettors and operatives sought for their advice and opinions well in advance of when the prime directive was decided. And thus was born a clandestine caper worthy of any Oliver Stone movie.

It was conjured early last fall as the mastermind had given the matter some serious thought, gleaned from experience and reasonable expectation. It gained steam as the autumn leaves fluttered aimlessly to the ground and another season was about to emerge. The time for action loomed.  So, others were snared into the plot and sworn to secrecy.

Most were relatives and a few well-chosen colleagues. They listened to the proposed mission outcome and offered timely and intimate tips on how to most effectively target the prime directive: Strike fast and hard with blitzkrieg brilliance. One of the main conspirators, who will only be referred to as “Big Mama,” suggested how it could best be carried out “using a soft glove,” she chuckled slyly.

And so the process began. Carefully select the necessary resource and choose the proper occasion. Move silently and swift with a sniper’s patience and cunning, fully aware the cover could be blown by an errant slip of the tongue. Consider all of the options and potential outcomes. Pick the time and place. Be prepared to adapt.

The plan was decided. The shock and awe would be delivered on Christmas Eve 2012…

Forty minutes into the movie “Lincoln” the projector snapped liked a maple branch under the weight of an ice storm. So, Robyn and I returned to my south-side Indy home to open our gifts much earlier than planned. Johnny Mathis crooned about it being the “most wonderful time of the year” in the background.

We sat on the floor near the Christmas tree and traded presents. You can always tell the ones I wrap; they seem to have been assembled by a bipartisan congressional committee.

She opened the last gift. Oh, my – a nice pair of gloves. How thoughtful.  A practical gesture from a guy she has aligned herself with the last 3 ½ years. I suggested she try the left one on to make sure of the fit.

The ring fell to the floor and Robyn scooped it up and cradled it into her open palms. She gazed at it for a few moments and then quickly put it on her left ring finger.

“Does this mean… ?”  she asked haltingly, a quivering grin spreading across her face.

All of the touching, romantic lines I had earlier rehearsed seemed to evaporate. A wordsmith whose forge had gone cold. I vaguely remember my initial response as being something like this:

“Well, if you don’t mind too much and don’t think you’re gonna be busy or anything like that, would you think about marrying me? Uh, I think I’m supposed to put the ring on your finger.”

She removed it so that I could fulfill the plot. Andy Williams sang “Silent Night” on the stereo.

Then we hugged, wept, laughed and held hands beneath the Christmas tree, with Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus and the other supporting actors in the ceramic Nativity Scene looking on in approval.  

And then Robyn said yes.