Yes, I Will Marry You
Canadian Man wasn’t looking for romance when he arrived in Minnesota that steamy July of 1975. In fact, he was not looking at girls, he said. Right.
But his defenses were not capable of resisting the wiles of one girl wearing a white plastic apron with sweat trickling down her face and dripping off the end of her nose. He took one look at this girl doing garbage detail during a church event, and he forgot his resolution and jumped headlong into the perilous pit of love.
Why do I call it perilous? With love are risks of heartache and heartbreak, the pain of rejection.
But there’s something about love that is irresistible. The promise of joy is so profound and alluring that it completely obliterates the fear of pain. We rarely worry about such things when we fall in love. Canadian Man saw ‘kind eyes’ and cute drop of sweat on the end of an up-turned nose and completely forgot his no-girls resolution. His heart went head-over-heels.
I was that girl. And I was oblivious to the guy from the prairies with hopeful eyes and an inviting smile wearing comfy blue jeans and cowboy boots who finagled an introduction through a mutual friend there by the garbage cans. I politely greeted him, then promptly forgot him.
Sorry, Canadian Man!
What was it about him that set him apart from the crowd that evening at the bonfire? Was it his white leather jacket that was very unlike the apparel of the guys in my hometown? Subconscious chemistry? Or the fact that every time I happened to glance his way, he was looking at me? (!)
He finally approached me and initiated a conversation. “Who are you?” I asked like I’d never seen him before.
Ouch.
Canadian Man took the zinger to the heart like a trouper, and we had a nice conversation. He asked if he could take me home as I had come in someone else’s ride. It caused me to hyperventilate just thinking of explaining this new development to my family this early in the game, and I turned him down.
Strike two.
However, I did agree to write to him, and we happily exchanged addresses. In those dinosaur days, there were no cell phones, and a lengthy long-distance call on the landline required a second mortgage. We didn’t even have the first one, so letters became our chosen mode of communication. (In spite of that sensible choice, we did rack up one phone bill of $400 which gave his mother a conniption.)
He made the 12-hour drive from Saskatchewan to see me the next month in a sporty Road Runner that most girls drooled over. I was not impressed. Muscle cars seemed to me to be all about ego and pride, not characteristics that I thought were appealing. Somehow Canadian Man got wind of my half-baked opinion. He traded his pride and joy (and I know it broke his heart) for a car that I considered more acceptable. ‘You were more important,’ he told me later.
(Oh, my goodness, Elaine!)
He offered me a ‘promise ring.’ I turned him down. “That’s not ‘me,’” I said.
He asked me to marry him. I turned him down. “Not yet,” I said.
He asked me to marry him a second time. “Not ready yet,” I said.
Yikes! How many rejections does it take for a Canadian to give up?
Answer: I don’t know, I haven’t gotten there yet.
Canadian Man has hung in there with me through all my high maintenance quirks and selfish opinions, rejection and dashed hopes.
He has been there for me through births and deaths, diapers and stomach flu, colic and teenagers, trials and joys. He has been there through crabby days and sleepless nights, road trips and repair bills, thick and thin, chaos and order, laughter and tears.
Borrowing the jingle from an ad of certain insurance company from back in the day: ‘Like a good neighbor, Canadian Man is there!’ For over forty-six years.
I’m so glad I finally started saying ‘yes.’ Yes, I will ride with you. Yes, I will wear your ring. Yes, I will marry you. I would do it again in a heartbeat. And I would ride for miles and miles in his so-cool, make-me-drool Road Runner, happily and oh, so proudly!
