a parking lot proposal

I have a love/hate relationship with my bio class—it can be truly entertaining at times, when the whole class gets off-topic and we participate in discussions about Harry Potter, 2012 or Ned’s Declassified during long blocks. Then again, it can drag on miserably and leave me with a profound dislike of enzymes and biomolecules.

Today, however, was an extraordinarily eventful class, starting with the awkward question, “Hey, Hoffman, are you going to propose to your girlfriend?”

About twenty sleep deprived freshman went dead silent (which never happens) waiting for our teacher—who acquired his first teaching job this year and doesn’t have the best reputation for discipline—to react to such a personal question.

Instead of reprimanding the speaker about the boundaries of appropriate conversation, Hoffman got a strange look on his face and demanded to know where he’d heard that from.

With a nervous laugh, one girl in the front row admitted she’d overheard him mention something about a ring in the hallway before school, assuring him she hadn’t meant to and really, she wasn’t a stalker, please don’t be mad.

Hoffman gave an awkward sigh-laugh and then smiled at us. “Yeah, guys, I got engaged over the weekend,” he said, prompting the twenty sleep deprived freshman to burst into applause and catcalls.

The guys all squirmed uncomfortably and the girls leaned forward in their seats, demanding the full story, displaying the same affection commonly used for baby rabbits, puppies and chick flicks.

Our bio teacher went on to explain that the ring was a family heirloom that had belonged to his mother and he’d visited with her family for Thanksgiving and asked her father permission the night before—warning all the guys in our class to do the same when they proposed, which made them squirm more and the girls smile wider—and on Black Friday, he and his girlfriend went to Kohl’s to buy a vacuum and he got down on one knee right there in the department store parking lot.  

“But what did you say?” one girl gasped, clasping her hands eagerly, because we’re girls and this is what we do—we eat up cutesy stories like this, we “ohhh” and “awww” until we’re hoarse and daydream about our own weddings when class gets too boring.

“That’s a little personal,” Hoffman objected, reddening, but told us anyway…

Jill, you are my best friend and I couldn’t imagine spending my life with anyone else. Will you marry me?

The collective, anticipated awwwwww! arose and made our teacher turn maroon, instantly regretting he’d told a classroom full of fifteen year old girls exactly how he had proposed, but we congratulated him profusely and he thanked us sincerely, but announced no, we would not be invited to the wedding.

At lunch, when I gushed to my friends about it, they wrinkled their noses. “A parking lot? You serious? I woulda said no if my boyfriend popped the question in a parking lot…”

I gave some generic answer while they explained to me about how their engagement was going to be on the beach, or in Paris, perfectly sweet and perfectly romantic and perfectly fake enough to be the plot of a Nick Spark’s sob story. Privately, I made the firm decision I’d chose a parking lot over a French beach any day…at least it would be real, instead of something plastic and Hollywood, scripted and filmed and force fed to teenage girls, driving this idea of Disney Prince perfection into their brains. At least it would be unique, instead of something stolen right out of a rom-com, with candles and rose petals and some caramel-coated profession of love.

As we shuffled out of class after the bell sounded, one kid called out, “You think she’s hot, Hoffman?”

“What do you think?” Hoffman shot back.