Mister Me Makes It Official
I’ve never seen someone so jumpy at 5am. While I was grumbling groggily and threatening bodily harm, Mister Me was frantically running through the house double checking everything. Our cab showed up 15 minutes early which seemed a part of his plan, since I was half-dressed and he was in the elevator waiting.
His brain seemed to liquefy as the morning went on.
This guy, who used to take 100 flights a year as a matter of lifestyle, managed lose his boarding pass somewhere between security and the gate. He seemed to be trying to look in multiple directions at once, as if he might suddenly be jumped by a gang of ninjas.
(Which, I guess, is fair enough. You never know when you’re about to get jumped by ninjas. That’s why they’re called ninjas.)
We pulled into our first winery an hour and a half after we landed. The staff kept stealing sidelong glances as we were seated on the tasting porch. I couldn’t tell if everyone was just stoned or if they were smirking at me; I checked my teeth and my fly – everything was as it should be.
That ring must have been burning a fiery hole in his thigh. We’d been at our table less than 5 minutes before Mister Me led me, merlot in hand, into the vineyard, dropped to one knee and asked me to marry him. I’ll spare you the sap, but let me just say, it was beautiful.
Then, as if his brain suddenly re-congealed, he found his boarding pass.
Ever the constant overachiever, he then led me to our private wine tasting and lunch, followed by tour. We left Duckhorn Winery full, buzzed, happy, educated and, most importantly, engaged.
We spent the next two days soaking up the sun, view, wine and calories and abusing our newly acquired superpower to manifest free champagne every time we squealed, “We just got engaged!”
Every moment of our trip was perfection; bliss on steroids… except for the part where a bird shit on my head and I descended into a tailspin of rage and panic, screaming “WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING ME!?” at my newly minted and petrified fiance. That part was a little rocky…
Now it’s all said and done.
I guess that makes me the future Missus Mister Me.
… Huh. Didn’t think that moniker through very thoroughly…