How Not to Propose – Lesson 2

Growing up, I didn’t think much about getting married. In fact, I had no idea what I wanted out of my life at all.

I didn’t want to end up lonely, but I didn’t want to end up in a mismatch, either. I just didn’t identify with the Cinderella story, of finding my prince and living happily ever after. Perhaps because Mum and Dad married later in life than most others and lived independently until then, I understood I could get more out of my life than just growing up, getting married and having kids (which didn’t really interest me at that stage, anyway). So when I met Wayne at the age of 19, it never occurred to me that we’d be sharing our lives 45+ years later!

When we first met, we didn’t really take to each other – it took a couple of months for the first small sparks to ignite. But 18 months later, we’d reached a stage where I was renting a 2-bedroom flat, looking for a flatmate, and Wayne was spending nearly every night there, keeping me company, while said flatmate search carried on. (I had to hide his toothbrush whenever Mum visited, though – she’d never have coped with that! 😉 )

What I couldn’t understand was why he didn’t tell me to forget the flatmate search, why he didn’t move in with me and make it ‘our’ place. I figured he was waiting for me to find someone to share with so he could gently wriggle out of my life.

We were heading towards Easter, 1982 (yep – 44 years ago this week!), and I’d finally found a flatmate. Greg had moved in a week or so earlier and I thought Wayne would stop staying over, but he didn’t. I was so confused!

The other weird thing was that I’d reached a stage where I loved him so much, I only wanted what would make him happy. If he was going to break up with me, I was prepared to let him go on the grounds that I cared for him in such a way that I simply couldn’t make things ugly for him. But outside of that, it was business as usual – our routines didn’t change.

So there we were, Thursday evening, the night before Good Friday, in the New South Wales Leagues Club in Phillip Street, Sydney, enjoying his workmates’ company. We finally got back to the flat around 8 pm and he sat himself on the kitchen bench while I started making us some cheese on toast. (I have no idea how I even remember that after all these years! )

As he sat there, he kept taking deep breaths and sighing. I knew something was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me what. Eventually he said, ‘Ninety percent of me wants to marry you.’

I was stunned. And then I burst into tears. We were THIS close! Whatever the issue was, it was only a 10% thing stopping him from committing to me, to us. How would I ever find such a perfect match for me again?

Clearly, my tears upset him, so he made it worse by saying, ‘Make that 99%’ – thinking that would help. NO! Only 1% is stopping you?! How can we not work through that?

I howled. Absolutely howled. A 10% gap was one thing, but just 1%? My heart was breaking.

Eventually I found the courage to ask, ‘What about the other 1%?’, meaning ‘What’s the roadblock? Why can’t we get married?’ His answer?

‘That depends on you.’

Cue second round of howling! Only this time it was happy howling.

This year, we’re heading for our 44th wedding anniversary, having married just a few months after his ‘proposal’ (if you’d like to call it that!).

Like all couples – officially married or long-term de facto – we’ve had our ups and downs. But when the ups outweigh the downs, it’s always worth fighting for more ups, and so we do.

But yeah, between Wayne and Dad, I’ve never been able to decide which one to give the ‘How Not to Propose’ Gold Medal to!

Wayne and I celebrating our 40th wedding anniversary,
September 2022, Fremantle, Perth.

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