A few years ago, I announced that I'd never get married.
Babies. Baking chicken. Being a unit. That what it's all about, right?
I was, and still find myself in "me" mode and selfish. I graduated from the University of Florida in 2005 (go Gators!) and took a risk moving to New Smyrna Beach, where I knew no one and landed a job at The Daytona Beach News-Journal.
The voice in my head urged me to live my life. Start my career. Get my own place (and check the locks constantly). Meet new people and try new things.
But in doing that, I put my relationship on hold with Tim, my longtime boyfriend in Gainesville.
We did the long distance thing for two years and absence only made our hearts grow fonder.
Eventually he moved here and we found ourselves playing house in a ridiculous, pastel-colored home that closely resembles an Easter egg.
Tim helped me with the dishes. We split the grocery bills evenly. Both of us surfed on the weekends and entertained countless people who came for beach retreats.
We were happy. And happiness that lasted as long as ours could only mean one thing to so many people:
"So . . . when are you two going to get married?"
For the longest time, I had survived the proposition with good reasons, not excuses. We started dating when I was 19. Most of the time, when people brought it up, I could just say,
"Well, I'm too young," or "I need to finish college first."
And then I turned 25 and never heard the end of it.
Everyone we met had something to say about it. Suddenly we had a bajillion weddings to attend. Friends would pop the corny question after the ceremony: "So, you two must be next, huh?"
It felt like a societal obligation. You're 25 and he's 30. It's been seven years. Get married or get movin'.
Tim was ready, but I continued to resist. I wanted to be the social renegade.
More than anything, it's the growing up part that I disliked. I've been hanging on to the youth of singledom, living in sin and proudly marking that box for "single woman" on documents.
Marriage felt like the final step for me to reach adulthood. Surely we'd have to buy a house.
Set down roots. I'd have to pop out a baby or three and worst yet, learn how to be wifey and bake chicken or something. We would never travel or spend money on lavish gourmet dinners or go zip-lining through a rainforest.
And then, finally at 26, I found myself thinking about the scenario in a different way. The married couples I knew seemed happy too.
And when we moved in together, nothing really changed. We still had fun, goofed off, went on adventurous vacations, hiked and kayaked all we wanted. Who said any of that had to stop when we sealed the deal?
Our marriage could be whatever we wanted it to be. If I didn't want to be a housewife, I didn't have to.
In a way, I realized I would still always be me because Tim expects nothing less.
Interestingly, when I decided I was ready, he wasn't. Or maybe he was, and he just didn't find the right time to pop the question. I was getting close to the point of asking him myself, when he finally did.
A few weeks ago, I had a tough day at work and Tim coaxed me into coming home early. I arrived to a warmly lit home, with one of our favorite songs playing in the background.
There were some red daisies at my desk and a few candles burning.
Something was amiss, but I figured he was trying to help me calm down after a bad day. I never expected it to be our big moment.
I was petting the dog on my lap, telling Tim about my day when I found something tucked in his collar.
A tiny note with a short and special message: "Will you marry my owner?"
I accepted our dog's proposal that night, knowing full well that when I say yes at the courthouse and at our wedding, I'll still be me when I'm at his side.
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Now that I'm engaged, the new question I'm battling is, "Will you keep your last name?" Stay tuned to find out why I'll always be Cucu.