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Two years ago on December 10th, Corey and I got engaged. In other words, tomorrow marks two years (happy feelings abound). It's been an interesting two years, no doubt. With car accidents, hospital visits, job hopping and cats running away, Corey and I have had quite the adventure. It's been fantastic.
But the story of how Corey proposed is what really deserves to be told. However, there's a bit of a back story.
About three and a half years ago, in an attempt to get a friend (and her mother) out of a very abusive home, Corey was hurt badly. The father was a 300 pound former boxer and when he came home the night Corey was over for dinner, the man flew off the handle in a drunken rage. Corey jumped in and took the beating instead of his friend or his friend's mother. The fight ended with Corey being thrown through unfinished drywall and down a flight of stairs, dislocating one of his knees and breaking several ribs. In fact the aftermath was so terrible, that the father thought that Corey was actually dead.
Fast forward to two years ago. Corey and I had been together for over a year, and I was very familiar with his lingering injuries. Particularly the broken rib that refused to heal. When it pops out of place, it scratches at his lungs making it hard for him to breathe, let alone stand up straight.
So, December 10th, 2007 and I received a phone call from my Mum regarding my birthday. She invited me and Corey out to Vancouver to have a dinner with my family. "Let's celebrate," he said. "Coffee sound good?" he asked. I agreed that coffee was a good plan, as there is a lovely little shop out in Langley down the old one-way. Moreover, in December, this sleepy part of Langley lights up with Christmas lights and decorations, so I thought it would be great.
Corey's mother came bounding down the stairs with a camera as well. "It's a clear night, and the lights are pretty. Take pictures and go for a walk." Looking back on it, I really should have clued in.
So off we went, and we arrived at McBurney's Coffee Shop about ten minutes later. We walked hand-in-hand into the little shop and up to the front counter where I placed my order. Corey placed his as well, though as I looked at him, I noticed he was holding his left side. His rib was acting up. "We don't have to go for a walk," I told him. He shook his head.
"I'm fine," he said, forcing a smile. I nodded, knowing his stubborn streak. Our drinks were ready quickly, and we grabbed them, making our way outside. However with a sudden whimper, Corey doubled over, clutching his side. It was rare for the rib to act up quite so much, however, it still happened and when it did, it usually meant he would be coughing up blood. So I moved his drink and was immediately at his side. He then sank to his knees, and I couldn't help but hit panic mode.
"What can I do? How can I help?" I asked, rubbing his back, kissing his cheek. He looked down for a moment, and I took a quick step back, hoping I could see another way to help. Then he looked up and pulled out an open ring box.
"Just say yes," he smiled. "Taylor, will you marry me?"
It was genius. I fell for it, and will never forget it. Nor will I forget that I'm engaged to a theater junkie.
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I am a relic.
(or at least I should be).
Me...I belong somewhere amongst
fables and shrouded history.
This contemporary
fast-paced,
can't sleep
can't waste time
on-the-go...
it's not fitting. Like a sweater that's
a size to big. It's warm but just not
quite right.
I was told by a ghost to
escape the clutches of the past for fear of lingering
in its spell. I laughed, and though I never said it
I sure thought it.
The past is where the stories come from.
And so I pen them all, though I admit I've been
distant, dear readers. But I am a relic, and have
recently come upon a most fitting means
of becoming more true to myself.
Amid the clicks and subtle beauties of rusted keys,
I can feel like I am creating something of worth.
Something that fits.
Somewhere in the past.
Because those are the best stories.
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By no means am I a morning person. By virtue of being neurotic, I'm usually up at least an hour before I really have to be, and even then I may still be up earlier. Lately, I've been getting up at 6:30 am.
But the winter weather gives me the perfect reason other than being slightly crazy.
The first picture was from this morning at around 7. The other two are from Tuesday around the same time. The fog in the Valley on Tuesday was beautiful.
Just thought I'd share :)
Happy Winter everyone!
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Let's tell stories, friend.
Let's be honest
and admit where we
really come from.
Let's strip off the filth
of our skin and
carve every tale
into our bones until
the marrow seeps through
and we bleed the truth.
I long for that honesty,
friend. I beg to know
the core of you
so that I may come
to know why you
matter to me.
But I ask too much.
And I stand, flesh stripped
away and the only stories
I have left are
bled through the tip of
a pen as I pray
that I have something worthwhile
to say.
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That's right. I like food. I love it, in fact. Three square meals a day, and plenty of snacks are my fuel. And if that doesn't happen, I'm not a happy camper. If it were possible to have you talk to my co-workers, they would tell you that I'm the almighty supplier of treats. In fact, at this very moment, I've stashed away just over 2lbs. of Oreos, a loaf of bread, and a back-up supply of instant coffee in the back room. And those are just snacks. Dinners are always more substantial. My father-in-law to be usually keeps a 14 oz. steak on hand just in case Corey and I come over for an impromptu b-b-q. There are never any left overs.
This being said, I'm growing rather tired of people, both on Xanga and in real life, assuming that a) I don't eat enough b) that I'm anorexic/bulimic or c) that I'm a recovering anorexic/bulimic.
I have actually been stopped by strangers on the street, informing me that there's a local clinic for recovering anorexics or that I should really eat more. Usually they tell me this as I have a slice of pizza in hand. I'll never understand people's sense of timing.
Recently on Xanga, there has been an influx of messages (not of the mass-message variety) of girls asking me what my secret is. How am I so skinny? What foods do I abstain from eating for fear of over-stepping my caloric boundaries and gaining an additional .000000001 of a pound?
NOTHING!
I am not one to say no to a meal, especially a flavourful and potentially fattening treat. Most of my friends pay me in food if I'm house sitting, or baby sitting or editing essays. Food is a wonderful treat for me, and I'm just getting immensely frustrated with this unfounded assumption that I force myself to stare longingly at that burger but never ever pick up and savour it.
The only secret I have is that I love my body: All 120 pounds of it, last I checked.
I will never deprive myself to achieve some dream of impossible perfection. I do not need to eat more (I don't think my budget could take it, to be honest). I'm just passed that point of being mildly confused, to being genuinely frustrated that there is this assumption that I don't eat.
I feel sorry for those girls who feel that the only way to be pleased with themselves is to count calories and declining pounds. But as sorry as I may be, please, stop asking my advice. Because all you'll get from me is that I love my sweets and my hearty meals.
I'm sorry for ranting, but I'm just so very done with people thinking that I don't eat. It's not a compliment.
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