Memoirs of a Fat Girl

It's official. My sister is engaged. And in the words of 90% of well wishers and friends alike, "It's about damn time!"

Communist Corey, fiancee of the hour, had us tensely running for the better part of two weeks to give Oli the shock of her life, which is exactly what she got. Popping the question was a private affair, as it should be, but we heard the story many times that night. She rushed home from work to find that he wasn't sick at all, it'd just been a ruse to get her there on time and to the flowers on her entrance steps. Eleven stairs, eleven flowers, eleven cards for the eleven months they had been together.

By the time she had gotten to the top of the stairs, weepy from the heartfelt messages in those cards and arms full of flowers, there he was on bended knee, with her custom made ring. And then, after persuading her to come to our parents' house to surprise us with the news, she instead was surprised again by his family and ours waiting with dinner, gifts, and all the love in the world.

My sister sat across from me at the table, resting her chin on her hands, newly adorned by diamonds, platinum and a clear blue sapphire. She was smiling, leaning against Corey and chatting about wedding details. And to pardon the fucking cliche, she was glowing.

I am very happy for Oli. She has waited a long time for love, and I do believe she's finally found it. And what a far, far cry this was from her engagement of years past. Five years ago, in our tiny first apartment in the city, she jumped on my futon while I was still in it, wearing sweats and a rock worth 20 grand. She wasn't glowing. She was blank. And being the idiot that I am, I tried to divert. "'That thing's huge."

Faint smile. No happiness yet. "What do I do, sis?"

"If you're asking me what to do, doesn't that mean you already know the answer?"

She stuck her hand out and studied the monstrosity on her fourth finger. "It doesn't suit me."

"No. Not really."

With that she flopped back down on top of me and my blanket, where we both did our best to ignore the diamond and the light patterns it was making on the wall.

But this ring does suit her. And on the matters of doubt and certainty, there are no questions to be asked.

Eleven cards, eleven flowers, a man down on one knee proposing to his soulmate. His words, too. And with all this I can't help but wonder that will something like this ever happen to me, is there a man out there who would even consider, even contemplate doing something at that level, for me? Is there such a thing in my universe as loving, and being loved, that much?

And in the immortal words of Jerry Springer, for one final thought... is he even capable of doing any of this, the man I have now?