Scott Green

Graduating college columnists like to write about what the school paper meant to them, how much they love their readers, and a bunch of other nonsense. With the readers, for example, my main interaction has been the DailyIllini.com comment boards, where people post threads titled “You can’t be serious” after I suggest the president host pot parties.

Instead I’m writing a follow-up to my Feb. 14, 2008 column. That one was about how I’ve never been good at dealing with females I’m attracted to, dating back to when I was 13 and could barely ask my crush, Michelle Zimbler, to dance with me at my own Bar Mitzvah.

I’d never told Michelle I liked her. In the column I wrote: “I needed to keep her totally convinced I did not have a crush on her, because the only good that could have come from her finding out would have been a long-term relationship, marriage, a brood of healthy children, and the founding of a charitable organization to feed starving third-world children. Luckily, I dodged that bullet.”

Things have changed.

Michelle and I were friends from fifth grade through college, but had been out of touch since 2005. After reading the column, Michelle, who was by then a gainfully employed adult, e-mailed to say it was “charming and hilarious.” I signed a copy, put it in a cheap frame and mailed it to her in Chicago, in the hopes she would enjoy opening what became in transit a package of broken glass.

After a few weeks of correspondence, I finally found the courage – 12 years after I developed my original crush – to horribly bungle asking her out. “Would you like to go on a date with me?” That’s the exact sort of direct approach I should have taken. Instead I asked if, provided she weren’t busy or anything, she wouldn’t mind hanging out or whatever, you know, next week or some other time, if next week isn’t good. Or whatever.

Somehow she found this endearing, or at least not creepy, and we had our first date March 21, 2008, at a little restaurant in Lincoln Park. Two weeks later we went on another. We began seeing each other every weekend. By the end of June we’d exchanged “I Love You”s, though I think she only said it to get me to shut up about having said it first.

Cliches come to life when you’re in love. Air feels fresher. Traffic moves faster. Movies are less formulaic. Love songs stop annoying you so much. Food tastes better, which explains why I gained 20 pounds. I attended summer school in Champaign but drove two hours to Chicago most weekends to visit. Which was a huge pain, because gas was $90 a gallon.

We took a trip to Seattle, attended friends’ weddings as each other’s plus-ones, took long walks to nowhere and talked on the phone for hours at a time. I found new ways to tell her how beautiful she was and she found new ways to tell me to stop wearing my favorite shirt. By the start of the fall semester we knew this was the real thing – the relationship that never ends – and I started telling my friends I wasn’t going to be fun anymore.

There are a lot of things a guy has to do before proposing, but none more important than buying a diamond engagement ring. This is a piece of jewelry that tells your beloved, in a timeless and romantic way, that you are now broke.

It took a lot of effort to find the perfect diamond. I even bought three books, which basically said everyone in the industry was trying to scam me, with the exception of diamond book authors.

I saw this in action. At a chain jewelry store whose identity I will protect because I don’t want Zales to sue me, I approached a saleswoman standing in front of a “The Diamond Store” sign. “Can I look at some diamonds?” I asked.

“We don’t have any,” she said.

Eventually I learned enough about the process to get a great deal on a diamond that was 1) nice enough that people would compliment Michelle on the bus; but 2) not so nice they would try to steal it.

Which meant it was time for the other major hurdle: getting permission from her father.

I know this is a chauvinistic tradition that dates back to the days when women were considered property. But I was concerned that if I didn’t observe it, Michelle’s dad would follow the equally outdated tradition of whacking me over the head with a club.

This meant secretly having dinner with Michelle’s parents at their house, which meant Mr. and Mrs. Zimbler knew what was up, which meant a really awkward time sitting around talking about anything but Michelle. I thought of excusing myself to go to the bathroom so I could climb out the window, but the jewelry store had a strict no-returns policy.

Finally, after maybe an hour and a half, I got the nerve to ask the big question: “Mr. Zimbler, can I use your bathroom?”

But it didn’t have windows, so I came back and asked if I could have his daughter’s hand in marriage. He looked at me and – as has long been part of this manly tradition – began weeping openly.

When he regained his composure he granted permission, after I specified which of his girls I wanted to marry. (“The older one,” I said.)

I had a ring; I had permission; I had a girlfriend. Now all I needed was a proposal. There was no shortage of romantic ideas: scoreboard at an arena football game; mariachi band; ring hidden in a bowl of flan; me jumping naked from an oversized gift box; mariachi band jumping naked from an oversized bowl of flan at her place of employment; etc.

Each of these I suggested to Michelle, who eventually got that I was kidding, and after paramedics removed the scissors from my forehead she even started adding her own humorous ideas, like a private romantic dinner or moonlit beach.

So she laughed at dinner one night when I told her I was about to get on my chair to proclaim my love, then propose marriage while a hired musician fiddled and waiters brought in six vases of roses. Even her wacky humor columnist boyfriend wasn’t crazy enough to make that kind of scene at this fancy restaurant in downtown Chicago, where we were celebrating the one-year anniversary of our first date.

Then I stood on my chair. “Excuse me,” I bellowed. “Can I please have everyone’s attention?”

I told the dining room our story: meeting in fifth grade, my secret junior high crush, the column that brought us together, the year spent head-over-heels, how she didn’t remind me too much of my mother. As the wait staff set the roses on the table and the violinist played, Michelle began to cry.

I stepped to the ground and took the ring box from my coat pocket. “Michelle,” I said, my voice cracking.

“You are the love of my life, my soul mate, and my best friend.

“Will you marry me?”

Two years ago, when I submitted my application to write a column for the Daily Illini, I figured it would be a fun way to get my picture in the newspaper every week. On occasions when I lost focus, I might even say something worthwhile.

But Michelle said “yes,” and so this column has transformed my life. Writing it is the best thing I’ve ever done.

Though according to Michelle, my best move was throwing away that shirt.

Scott was a third-year law student.