You'd probably choke on that tea. And while you're coughing painfully and wiping up spills, I'll do the math for you.
On the one hand, I'm your personal natural disaster with perpetually cold feet that I try to shove under your side at three in the morning. I'm the one who steals your T shirts and pretends they're designer oversized. I'm the reason your budget is bursting at the seams with my spontaneous "I want Dutch peonies in February" comments. Are you willing to commit to that for life? Without a money-back guarantee?
On the other hand, I see the way you adjust the blanket when you think I'm asleep. How you silently buy my favorite mango, even though you hate that slimy texture. How you manage to shut off my hysterical inner monologue with a single phrase, "Let me figure it out myself."
Becoming my husband isn't just about a stamp in your passport, right? It means sharing not only my bed and toothpaste, but also my head, my deadlines at work, and my eternal certainty that "I should have gotten dusty pink instead of beige." That means getting my mom with her "when already?" questions, my cat who considers you his personal property, and me, at the moment, angry, hungry, and incredibly stubborn.
You know, I wouldn't have asked without reason. If I brought it up, it means my internal "lie detector" has already given the go-ahead. I just needed to look into your eyes at that second. See fear, tenderness, or the calm confidence of a man who knows, yes, he can handle peonies, cold feet, and my quirks.
So, if you've stopped coughing now and are looking at me with a smile, just know I've already picked out a dress. In my mind. And yes, it will be white, but with sneakers. Because by agreeing to be my husband, you automatically agree to an adventure. So, will you take the risk?