Yes.

I say no alot. Do you want to have kids? No, I don't know, maybe, we'll see. Do you want to live in New Jersey? Not really. Do you really want to be a doctor? No. Do you think this makes me look fat? No. Should I get bangs? No. Do you mind if I go to a bachelor party? No. That last one is in my fake life, where strippers make less than me and have bad skin and haven't yet discovered Pilates.

And let's not forget that the Emergency Person has said no many, many times. For example, in the years prior to our "dating" I would suggest (not less than twice) that perhaps we shared more than just friendly emotional feelings and might benefit from exploring said feelings and he'd respond with a cool "no" that would bring me back to Earth. Of course his reasons were always rational. Always made sense. Always hard to debate. Always made me kind of sad.

So life happened (and many, many long conversations and many, many bottles of red wine), and eventually fate (or maybe a few pushy friends and the Las Vegas dry heat) brought us together. Not a smooth ride by any means, but who wants that anyway? Despite it all, I like to say that I knew that the EP was the guy when I met him. Who would stick with me as I called the Bellagio operator at 3 am, barefoot on Las Vegas Blvd and demanded the fountains be turned on? Who takes a girl to a 5 star restaurant, lets her order the wine, and then points out the hot girl who flies up in a harness to fetch the wine ("wine angel") having cleverly seated himself with a perfect view? Who LIKES that guy? Somewhere between Las Vegas Boulevard and San Diego, likely during a long conversation on a long drive down I-15 on one of many road trips, I fell flat on my face head over heels you know what with this man.

Fast forward to 2010. In my thoughts this year have been many of my dear friends who have dropped everything, picked up and moved to a place unknown because of boys. The outcomes are never the same, and the warnings are always there. The authors of He's Just Not That Into You have made a fortune out of this kind of warning. And frankly, I have given this kind of warning (then again, I have also said “it is your life, and you will kick yourself if you let this guy go now” more often than I have given the warning so maybe I am just a big sap after all). I have even heeded the advice in similar instances. I get it. I do. I get it. The risk of emotional carnage is exponentially higher when you add in a big move with (ahem) no ring.

“So what,” I said. So what? And I packed my shoes, left my (awesome) puppy with my Mom, and I moved to Abu Dhabi. Not for a boy, but for a job A job that is pretty interesting and pays enough to make me not broke and able to buy shoes frequently enough to satisfy any need for retail therapy (though all of you said it was for the boy, I know you did. I can read your faces…). Regardless, this was a big deal and very exciting and I was able to shut up the voice in my head (which was reading all of your faces) long enough to get on the plane. And I couldn’t have been happier. Then the boy came too and that was great. I thought to myself "well this is fantastic” and I started planning trips all over the place because my GOD it is hot here so I need to get away.

And then the funniest thing happened. I arrived in New York on June 29th, delayed 3 hours and the EP was there, with a car service, ready to burst because I'd been delayed. Cranky and cantankerous, he was not the picture of what you want to see when you have traveled for 24 hours and are meeting your guy in an airport that permits public displays of affection (my new appreciation for this will not go unrecognized here). Nonetheless, we proceeded to go out with friends and have a drink. Clearly, we were very thirsty because I awoke the next morning with a headache and jetlag.

In an effort to keep it honest, I will note here that I needed the hotel room key as I had to meet a dear friend for breakfast. Instead of waking a sleeping giant, I chose to rumble through the EP's jeans. The man heard me moving around and DOVE for the trousers in a move we'll call "not smooth" and proceeded to lecture me about going through his things. Hmmmmmmm.

With an air of suspicion, I bit my tongue and met my friend. Returning to the room, I was told we had ten minutes to pack because we were going to miss our flight. May I note here another reason that my guy is my guy: he plays with airport fire like NO ONE I KNOW. I have missed a flight or two because of an insistence on a sandwich, or a cocktail, or an extra 20 minutes of sleep. Nonetheless, we made our flight (despite a hilarious yet stressful drive through Manhattan to JFK courtesy of one of our favorite people in NYC) and in no thanks to the people at JFK (including the gal in front of me who thought that it was acceptable to wear club clothing with metal pieces to the airport, thereby setting off the metal detectors and resulting in the security lady yelling 'female assist').

Arriving in Boston was fantastic because the EP calmed down. Not sure whether it was the forthcoming trip to Fenway or the soothing sounds of PTI on ESPN provided by JetBlue’s on board DirecTV service, but the EP was back to normal. We checked into our hotel without incident and headed toward Faneuil Hall to fetch our Red Sox tickets. Of course, the EP wanted to take the scenic route and I basically said, in more than so many words, "you don't take the Charles to get there, even I know that." Clueless despite my earlier suspicions, I reluctantly walk toward the waterfront to take the longest way possible through Boston. Then the big guy says we should relax.

Relax!?!?!?!

Family en route, tickets to pick up, lunch to eat, potential naps to take, and he wants us to take a break and relax.

"Let's sit here on this bench," he says.

"What?" and as I turn around, as a lady who doth protest too much is want to do, I see this guy -- the guy who cooly explained to me that we were colleagues and that was more important than a romantic something or other, and then later we were too good of friends to explore a relationship, and that just because we were moving we didn't need to be married, and so on and so forth -- holding a gorgeous sparkler of a piece of jewelry and insisting I sit down on a bench for just a minute.

So that he could ask me to marry him.

"Are you SERIOUS?!!?" I said.

(Note: This is when you're supposed to say yes).

"You're supposed to say yes," he stammered.

And as much as I always knew it, and as much as his attempts at secrecy were faulty and as much as I want to be able to say something utterly profound about it, I was floored. And I continue to be every day. Some people call it "glowing" - I call it being knocked back on my heels. Because as hard as I fell years ago, he knocked me back on me heels just as hard when he looked up at me and proposed marriage. Marriage. MARRIAGE. He wanted to marry ME?! ME!? Well that's fantastic.

So I said yes.

Holy wedding bells, Batman. We've got a ballgame.