Señorita Peaches = Nostradamus

On February 6, 2009 I wrote this:

"2010 should bring at least one of these things: law school, the start of a master's degree, a move to Spain, teaching Spanish (somehow the least likely of these things), or a second "real job". And, particularly if my family has anything to say about it, a marriage certificate."

I'm not ready to start a master's degree, and we aren't moving to Spain.  However, in 32 days, Mr. Peaches will start law school and I will officially be "teachy" (as we have termed it here in the Peaches household), which is to say a "real" teacher in a "real" classroom who is really scared shitless.

It has been against so many odds that Mr. Peaches and I made it to this moment.  We lived through seriously crippling poverty, and got by on public loans, private loans, and grants and loans from the Bank of Mama Peaches (also known as "the money tree out back").  I fought professors and department chairs, mentor teachers, and occasionally Mr. Peaches.  We took summer classes and I tripled up on credits by studying abroad.  Praxis.  LSAT.  We did this all living in a COLD place I DO NOT LIKE where it SNOWS two feet in APRIL!

But we made it.

We're still broke, actually, like I-can't-get-my-friend-of-21-years-a-wedding-gift broke, but in the next four weeks Mr. Peaches is going to get his first $9K student loan check from Law School and then I will start receiving paychecks and our financial worries will be nearly eradicated indefinitely (or so we think).  And I can send my friend a statue of herself made of gold to symbolize my happiness for her love.  Or something like that.  Until then, we're just letting our bills...be.  Pile up.  Collectors call.  WHATEVER.  We made it.

The marriage certificate is not happening this year, but last Wednesday, Mr. Peaches was telling me a long story about our future travels to Paris (a city I am totally in love with and convinced I must one day move to).  He talked about drinking coffee on the Champs-Élysées and visit the artists at Montparnasse and playing fetch with Mr. Holden at the Arc de Triomphe.  We would eat baguettes and walk hand in hand all day long.

This kind of fantasizing is not unusual when you are poor (we even fantasized about gourmet dinners), and we have talked about living this way many times before- sometimes it's Paris; sometimes it's Madrid; hell, sometimes it's Cincinnati, but it's always lovely.

This time was different.  This time my heart starting beating faster and some crazy love was in the air.  Hormones and shit, I don't know.  I started thinking, for some totally unknown reason, "If he does not ask me to marry him right this second I will die."

And then he did.

And I said yes.

And cried like a little girl.

So we're doing it.  Details to follow.

Apparently it is still love, Dear Reader, when you take the bigger piece of the pie.