April of 2008. I was obsessive-compulsively filling in my calender. In the midst of blithe scrawls of 'BREAK' across the first week, obscure holidays like Family Day (S. Africa) and birthdays of people I hardly knew/had only heard of (e.g., Drew's Older Sister's Birthday), one little day was packed with three or four events. In tiny, millimeter-high text, it could easily be missed:
I don't doubt that a lot of people did miss it. I didn't get near as many questions from people as I thought I'd might (though admittedly not a lot of people read my calender, and if they did they were probably just examining my doodles instead of reading it like they said they were.).
But I know what you're thinking. "What? Christina?! I have heard nothing of engagement. What is going on."
Perhaps I ought to explain.
I get sick of people asking me who I have a crush on/who I like/who I love/who I think is cute/who I would maybe-once-in-a-million-years consider dating and then rejecting my answer because 'EVERYBODY LIKES SOMEONE.'
Yeah, okay. You know what? I do love someone. I'm hopelessly, pathetically, rapturously in love with someone, but you don't know who he is. Want to know why?
Because I don't know who he is yet.
And then they laugh at me. "You can't love him; you don't know who he is!"
Honestly I can be kind of stubborn. My friends know this firsthand: If I make up my mind (really, really make up my mind), then I'm not about to change it. I might contradict it sometimes, but every fiber of my being is still following that idea, that thought. Years later I've still got that decision in my mind; whether it's for or against the thing doesn't matter.
That was my decision back then. You say I have to like someone? Cool. I get to pick, though, and I pick that guy, the one I don't know. The one who I might not have met yet, the one who I might have known when I was a baby and haven't seen for thirteen years, the one I might sit behind in history class every week. The one that I'll spend my life with someday. And you know what? In seven years, and in seventeen years, and in seventy years, I'll still be loving him, whereas Kyle or Daniel who you like now may be living in New York married to a taxi cab driver, or a single missionary in Venezuela doing eye surgery every morning over coffee.
And so, to remind myself of my decision (and maybe kind of to spite my friends), I boldly emblazoned '-10th Anniversary' on my calender.
Boldly in one millimeter script.
Thirteen-year-olds. (I'm rolling my eyes, if you can't tell.)
The -10 just came on a whim. In 2018, I'll be 23. I've always felt that was a good age to get married. It just seems right. Not too old, but not too young.
Of course, now that I'm 16, I really don't know if I'd even be ready at 23. Seven years? Oish.
And, of course, there are the logistics of actually meeting the guy and having him propose and little things like that. But that's the year on my calender, so that's what I'll stick to for now.
I've always loved April 14th. I just love April and 14 has been my favorite number for a long time, so I think it works. Besides, April is spring! And spring is a lovely, lovely time of year to be married, I think.
So today is my day. This is the day every year that I celebrate that guy that I'll marry someday, because I don't know who he is and I'm content with that. Today is the day I celebrate love. It's my -7th anniversary, and I'm dang pleased with it.
Google tells me Jack-in-the-pulpits and yellow sapphires are suitable gifts to give on a seventh anniversary to
Miss Christina Icarus