Friends from the old days tell me that at some point in my life, I professed that I should never marry. If this is the case, then I must remind readers that I am the consummate Emma: it is likely that my ignorance of my own emotions is only rivaled by my presumption of omniscience on the same score. (This same argument might provoke the discerning reader to disregard the assertions I make hereafter. However, I assure you that I now write in as lucid and self-aware a state as one can when addressing matters of the heart, which are, by their very nature, irrational.)
Far from harboring a desire to remain Ms. Nafday all my life, I will go so far as to advise you all to clear your calendars for December 19. The year is unfortunately uncertain, although we can be fairly confident that it will not be, at the very earliest, until 2013. As of now, there are no plans for a wedding ceremony of any sort, but there will probably be a reception, and definitely a registry (Williams-Sonoma, at the very least).
It will all begin some three months before the big day, as I could not possibly tolerate a long engagement any more than I could a long-distance relationship. It is folly, I tell you! In any case, I intend to be proposed to in a Barnes & Noble — preferably the one at Fashion Island, but another location is acceptable, provided that it has two stories. The reasoning is as follows. My reverent passion for Barnes & Noble drives me quite to distraction; by default, I acquiesce to all requests made within that sacred space, preposterous though they may be. By choosing such a suitable setting for a proposal, my future husband will demonstrate a most commendable degree of manipulation that I cannot but respect. And is not respect the foundation for every successful relationship?
I do not presume to script the proposal itself in advance, but I will scatter some guidelines into the ether. While I adore lofty declarations of love in literature, in life I am apt to laugh derisively in the face of any man who decides to recite famous poetry (or worse, compose his own!) in order to "express his feelings." One must employ succinct, organized, original prose when paying one's addresses, stylistically sound and grammatically pristine, yet not over-formal. If words were attire, the enticing proposal would register as dressy casual.
Provided that the above conditions are satisfied, and the proposal therefore courteously accepted, we will then sit down at the in-store Starbucks (a location for which my love is well-documented) to discuss the logistics of the union — that is, to ensure that our envisioned future lives mesh well. That long dialogue I will not imagine for you here, but the salient issues (such as income and living arrangements, annoying habits, and the number and spacing of children, to name but a few) will be hashed and rehashed until we formulate a contract agreeable to both. Should these negotiations fail irrevocably, then the merger must be called off, but otherwise, we proceed to married bliss.
You may claim that an uncontrolled variable persists in the midst of all this preparation: my future husband himself. Perhaps you will protest when I say that his identity is of minimal importance, so long as he meets my minimum qualifications (a subject for another entry), but I can only refer you to the incontrovertible authority on such matters, Jane Austen:
"Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation, and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life."