Engaged (Part II)

“WHERE’S MY RING?!”

This was my three-word mantra for the days that followed Proposal I. I didn’t know when Lucy would pop the question back to me, but I suspected it would happen no later than July 4th, our anniversary. That left approximately fifty-five days to choose from. And you best believe that I went into every one of those fifty-five days with a lil bounce in my step. Could this be the day? Like an unscratched lottery ticket, each day filled with the exhilarating possibility that some life-changing event was about to ensue.

There were a few close calls. On May 22, when we got “last minute” tickets to the Sky home opener. Could it be? A jumbotron proposal?! As we took the elevator down in our apartment to head to Wintrust Arena, I gave Lucy an extra long hug, secretly patting her down, sifting for a box-shaped protrusion from her pants pocket. Nothing. Then there was Memorial Day Weekend. We had a flight to DC. Flying was the theme of our love story—our motto being, we didn’t want to “fall in love” but to “fly in love.” Surely Lucy would capitalize on this thematic opportunity and propose on our American Airline flight. Nope.

But then came the night of Tuesday, June 3, when Lucy told me to pack an “overnight bag”—something I could quickly take with me if we were to go on a hypothetical trip that weekend. I had so many questions: Do I need to take off work? Do I need my passport? Do I need biker spandex? But no question was bigger than the one blaring in my head for the past three weeks. WHERE’S. MY. RING.

June 6, 2025: Lucy and I arrived in Lake Geneva, a lakehouse haven in southeastern Wisconsin. We made the 80-mile road trip from Chicago last Labor Day Weekend, and it was an absolute fairytale—cycling the hilly circumference around the lake, promenading through the small town charm with our ice cream cones, and (above all else) discovering Midwest utopia: The Pizza Farm.

Imagine a live band playing out of a barn, while hundreds of families scatter across tables and picnic blankets, wood-fired pizzas being hand-delivered by teens trying to make an extra buck over the summer, the smell of basil-topped mozzarella flirting with the warm breeze as the sun sets over the countryside. Okay stop imagining and just LOOK AT HER:

The morning after our inaugural Pizza Farm date, I reflected in my journal: “The sun has set, but it wasn’t dark and mosquitoey yet. It was that happy in between, where the daylight echoes in the sky before handing the baton to the stars and moon.” I awed over the Pizza Farm like some Mary Oliver prodigy. It was THAT magical.

Almost a year later, Lucy and I returned to the Pizza Farm. I should’ve known it was happening. I mean what better place to propose than in Midwest utopia?! Not to mention Lucy brought a purse—a rarity for us unless we’re attending something fancy schmancy. But this is where I become Oblivious Olivia (cousin to Negative Nancy and Debbie Downer). For twenty-seven days and two hours I was on high alert that the proposal could happen at any moment, and yet when we arrived at the Pizza Farm, my mind surrendered its focus to the acoustics floating out of the barn, families huddled around their 14-inch doughy halo, little kids running in the nearby fields, and the cows off in the distance.

Lucy ordered our cheese pizza, which meant we had about an hour to kill.

“Let’s walk by the cows!” I pointed to the desolate barbed-wired area, glistening under the sun. Lucy followed my lead as we strolled past a group of kids playing Gaga (a hallmark of my four years at a Jewish private school), then a couple of teen boys zipping a baseball back and forth. As we approached the cows, the music and kiddie screams faded; the smell of pizza dissipated and was replaced by cow shit. Lots and lots of cow shit.

Lucy and I hopscotched around the trail of brown junk-from-the-trunk, as my mind teleported back to April 2022. Two weeks in India, breathing in cows and masala (spice). I would describe that trip as 90% self-transformation, 10% cow butt selfies. And the same ratio would hold true that Friday evening at Pizza Farm.

At 6:59 PM:

7:00 PM:

“This would be a super romantic setting to propose,” I smirked, as cow shit Febreezed around us.

On cue, Lucy nestled her iPhone in her hands like a prayer book, her eyes smiling at the screen.

“Lena, I may not have written you a song, but hopefully these words, spoken from deep within my soul, will leave an imprint on your heart.”

“Oh my G-d it’s happening!” I wrapped my arms around Lucy. “Yes, yes, YES!”

The evening sun created a golden contour around Lucy’s blonde hair as my eyes watered into that cusp of a cry reserved for when you’re overcome by something beautiful. So much light glowing before me. I will always remember that image of Lucy with the sun beaming behind her.

“On your 28th birthday, I wrote you a note called ‘28 Things I Love About Lena Munzer,’” Lucy continued.  “I thought it would be fun to revisit some of those highlights, and add a few others.” Her cheeks dimpled as her sweet little voice boosted my ego to a new PR. One of the 28+ things I love about Lucy Montgomery is that she sees every lil fiber of my being. She sees my heart, my insecurities, my patience, my good intentions, my fears. And the girl remembers EVERYTHING. Every story and footnote of my life. We are at a point where Lucy knows my childhood memories better than me. Scary good.

“You are discerning with your money unless it’s a) BannersOnTheCheap.com b) silicone bracelets c) Bluetooth-enabled lava lamps and d) Sweetgreen.” Lucy looked up from her phone, the blue in her eyes holding me.

You know that feeling when you stare at something and then you start seeing double? Maybe not, but stay with me. I have this thing that happens when I stare into Lucy’s eyes. The setting around her blurs, even her face and hair become fuzzy. A camera in focus, I stare into her eyes and instead of seeing double I see time. Like a That’s So Raven glimpse into the future, I see 80-year-old Lucy. I imagine wrinkles and gray hair blurred with the rest of the world, as I stare into those same eyes decades later. No matter what time does to us, I will always have those two blue eyes. Always.

“You’re still the one I love,” Lucy quoted Shania Twain. “And will always love, forever and ever.” She reached into her purse and handed me a scratch-off lottery ticket. One day when my memoir sits on your bookshelf, you will understand the spiritual significance of this act. For now, just think of lottery tickets as the motif of our love story.

Lucy handed me a coin, and I worked through the purple ticket in record time, not even scratching off the three consecutive diamonds that earned me the Prize Box:

Lucy opened the black velvet box that had been hidden in our apartment for the past three months. And there she was. My ring. MY RING! A mixture of Handel’s “Hallelujah” and Hailee Steinfeld’s “Starving” projected from my brain’s boombox as Lucy slipped the gold-banded diamond onto my naked finger. For weeks, I catastrophized that the band would be too small and not fit onto my ring finger. But alas, it was just how I like my clothes: loose and breathable. She was perfect, and she was mine. All mine.

Lucy and I took celebratory selfies and then headed back to the pizza grounds. We snagged an open picnic table and sat across from each other, doting on one another just like we had last summer when I wrote:

279 days and 2 proposals later, we stared at each other as fiancées. Lucy’s blue eyes reeled with a lifetime of bike rides, sweet potatoes, and parking tickets. And a lifetime of feeling seen.

Though I am a hopeful romantic, I’m not an irrational one. I know this story doesn’t end with “and they lived happily ever after.” In fact, just forty-eight hours later, we had our first “positive conflict” as an engaged couple. A ring—not even two rings—can grant you immunity to the heartaches of love, of blending lives with another human. But through the turbulence of life, the ups and downs, the live music and the silent car rides, the WNBA streaming and the wedding planning, I found someone who will take a megamillion moments and make each of them matter. And what better life lottery is there than that: finding someone who will make meaning with you.

Lucy, there’s no doubt in my mind we will live joyfully ever after, bravely ever after, Sweetgreenly ever after. And 28+ other adverbs. But if I had to pick one, I’ll conclude our proposal chronicles with this: and we lived fully ever after. ♥️