And also with you.

Step 1: Take a sheet of paper and pen, and move away from your fiancé- far enough that he or she can't see what you write.

Step 2: Write down your answers to the following questions. Answer honestly without trying to predict what your fiancé may want you to write.

Question 1: In 10 years, where will you live?

Question 2: In 10 years, how much money will your spouse be making?

Question 3: In 10 years, what will your family look like?

Step 3: Share your answers. 

Jon and I smirked at each other as we completed the homework assignment suggested by the priest overseeing our Pre-Cana class, the marriage prep course Catholics are required to complete before getting married in the Catholic Church. We opted for an "intensive" 2-day retreat instead of six weeks of Sunday classes. About 12 other Brooklyn-based couples attended. The group was relatively young and seemingly normal, except for one Nigerian dude who kept raising his hand to ask about abortion.

The retreat started with a Friday evening prayer service led by a jovial monsignor with a sitcom Brooklyn accent. He began his sermon by calling the group out on collectively screwing up the response to "Peace be with you" during mass. The response was officially changed two years ago, but most of us chimed in with the old, inaccurate, "and also with you." Clearly this isn't the most devout group, the priest joked.

Good or bad Catholic, Pre-Cana is a time to ask any tough questions and clearly communicate our expectations of marriage, he explained. The three-question exercise (listed at the start of this post) was offered as a way to make sure you and your future spouse are "on the same page." Jon and I agreed to do it when we got home. 

We were both a little nervous before reading our answers out loud. Of course we had talked about our future (usually with stained lips and flushed faces after polishing off a bottle of wine). We've discussed where we may want to live. We've agreed that we want lots of kids. We've even concluded that we both like the girl's name Olivia. But that three-question quiz, it doesn't mess around.

We said our answers at the same time.

Question 1: In 10 years, where will you live?

That's a tough one to answer when you're both from someplace else and you meet in New York. As far as I can tell, it's a city you move to, and it's a city you one day leave. Maybe you fall in love, with a guy or a job or a rent-stabilized apartment, so you stay a while. But it's rarely because you planned it that way.

In many ways New York is easy to leave. For starters, it's absurd. Someone is honking, pushing, yelling, jackhammering and/or peeing near you at all times (usually all 5). And the the contents of our rented 1-bedroom lives could get packed into the back of a U-haul by by a Craig's List man-with- a-van in under 2 hours.

But in many more ways New York is impossible to leave. As far as I'm concerned, the delicious squeezy bottle sauce at the areapa restaurant in my hood is a compelling enough reason to raise a family here. How do you leave the best city in the world? How do we know if it's worth it or not to stay?

Alright already, "In 10 years, where will you live?"

We both wrote Florida. But I think we both sorta hope it's Brooklyn.

Question 2: In 10 years how much money will your spouse be making? 

I remember the first time I showed Jon my bank statement. He was doing my taxes. Or maybe he was teaching me how to check my credit score. Either way, I showed him mine and he showed me his. The exchange was uneventful. No big secrets revealed. But sharing our balances, savings and salaries felt surprisingly intimate and bonding.

My finances are really the only thing I've ever kept private. The rest is on my Facebook wall. It felt good and natural to let him into that bit of my world. But it was definitely strange to predict our future 40-year-old salaries out loud. As a woman, I was especially nervous to blurt out a number.

As much as we wanted to poke fun at Pre-Cana (after a 45 minute presentation on "natural family planning"), that simple exchange of answers sparked an important conversation about our future, for richer or poorer.

Question 3: In 10 years, what will your family look like? 

I can't remember Jon's answer. I think I hoped for three kids and a dog.

Either way, we all know the real answer: as many little big noses as we can afford.

***

The last 6 months since we got engaged have been awesome. The planning and parties have me excited for the wedding. But Pre-Cana got me excited for marriage. We're really doing this.

oops.

He surprised me with a tough to get reservation at ABC Kitchen, the Jean-Georges restaurant I had been craving since we met. Our table was candlelit and decorated with flowers. He made a toast to us. I sobbed the entire cab ride home.

This isn't a post about the night Jon proposed. It's about the night he didn't. 

Allow me to rewind about four months.

Jon spent Thanksgiving with my family in Tampa this year. During our two year relationship he had hung out with the Garcia's at least half a dozen times but having him home for a holiday felt extra special. He drank scotch with my dad. He put my parents' gadgets up on the Cloud. He eagerly accepted multiple servings of my mom's empanadas. Jon fit in effortlessly. It was a really good Thanksgiving. Possibly too good.

As Jon gained approval, the when's-the-wedding bug spread. My mom made her case for a winter wedding in Florida. My friends took turns guessing the proposal date. And my dear sister, well, she waited six minutes after picking us up from the airport to cut the radio and deploy the third degree. Something like, "You know you gotta get married before you move in together. Seriously, the family won't approve. Seriously."

Of course I had thought about marrying Jon. Who are we kidding-- I've spent countless hours (days, months) daydreaming about a wedding and marriage with him. I've practiced signing his last name. I've Pinned my favorite bridal bouquets, cakes and sweetheart necklines. I've even thought about what our babies would look like (all nose). I'll admit I've been shamelessly using my job as event planner as an excuse to dream up my wedding for half a decade. 

But thinking or even Pinning about a wedding or proposal is very different from actually planning a real live one. As a relatively rational woman for 28 years (breezing past the early teens),  I know just how dangerous premature planning can be. Still, with a little too much encouragement from the peanut gallery in Tampa, I caught that pesky wedding bug too. I let myself wonder, really wonder, when Jon might pop the question. Wondering boiled into obsessing until, while sitting in a pedicure chair next to my best friend, I convinced myself that he would do it right after we got back to New York. All (two) of the signs were there. 

Sign #1: He asked me to save the 2nd anniversary of our first kiss for a surprise plan (Well, he didn't reference the anniversary. He just said don't make plans on Wednesday which happened to be the anniversary of our first kiss. Ya know, that anniversary that every man commits to memory.) 

Sign #2: He had plenty of one-on-one time with Dad while he was in Tampa.

It was decided! I squealed, selected a pale pink nail polish suitable for an engaged hand and boarded a plane to New York.

At work on wedding-proposal Wednesday, I simply couldn't help myself. I told my colleagues and anyone within ear shot that I thought it was happening that night. Jon didn't help. He refused to reveal our plan for the evening. Just wait for a text, he explained, unknowingly perpetuating the rom-com engagement that was reeling through my imagination. At around 3:00 p.m my phone buzzed "Meet me at the corner of Broadway and 17th St. at 5:20 p.m." 

We met. He grinned as he lead me into ABC Kitchen, our candlelit table, our perfect bottle of wine. He grinned through our tuna sashimi and chicken liver toast appetizers. He told me about his day. He ordered us meticulously muddled cocktails. He insisted on dessert. He was having a lovely dinner. Meanwhile, across the table, I was freaking out. When is he gonna do this? Is there a ring on that strawberry?  What if I swallow it? Maybe it's happening after we eat? Do the waiters know? I should put on lipstick. 

After dinner, as Jon hailed a cab and complained that he was too full to walk to my apartment, my brain finally began to compute that it wasn't happening. I wasn't getting engaged. It was simply a lovely, thoughtful surprise reservation. No proposal. Not happening. Get a grip.

Thing is, I couldn't. In the back seat of the cab I did the only thing I didn't want to do. I cried. Hard. Jon turned to me startled. I struggled to catch my breath as he asked what was wrong. I wasn't angry. I wasn't even sad. I was embarrassed and overwhelmed and frankly I was exhausted. I had spent the last week of my life out of my mind. 

After unsuccessfully searching for a lie to explain my outburst, I smeared my mascara, snorted up some tears and admitted why I was crying. Jon laughed. Hard. He wrapped his arms around me and assured me that I was crazy, that he wasn't going to propose in a restaurant and that he certainly wasn't going to propose when I expected it. 

As  embarrassing as that night (and the subsequent morning at work) was, I'm glad it happened. After that excruciating cab ride home, I truly let go. I let go of predicting and planning. I kept the Pinterest board (duh) but I shoved the engagement out of my brain. When Mom asked about it, I shushed her and changed the subject. I was grateful for my relationship where it was.

About a month later, in the middle of our move to our new apartment, barefoot and in between dusty boxes, Jon got down on one knee and gave me the greatest shock of my life.

Our first photo after the proposal...taken by our doorman :)