giving me the finger

My Frans has been spotted recently sporting a new, sparkly, ring-resembling addition to her person (suspiciously located on a certain and aptly-named ring finger), and calling This Man her fiancé.

That’s right, people. My Frans is officially engaged.

The news left me (slightly soiled in my short pants on account of my shock, but mostly just) excited, and happy my friend has finally found a fellow worth the loving and the long-distancing and the (definitely-not-too-dainty) diamond-donning. And while at first I though her crazy (endearingly, of course) for falling in love with a Mobile (Alabama, that is) man, it seems now to make sense somehow. I even admire the unconventional, internet-assisted way this engagement has evolved, a connection cultivated over months and miles, rooted not in fleeting physicalities, but in the honestly of intellect and the rawness of emotion.

Frans has asked me to be her Maid of Honor—a task to which I will devote myself wholeheartedly, sparing no expense (monetarily and morally speaking). If this means purchasing and subsequently wearing an unflattering frock for the ceremony, I’ll do it. If this means getting fresh with a groomsman (or two) for the sake of matrimonial tradition, I’ll do it. If it means consuming copious amounts of alcohol at the reception and performing an embarrassingly incoherent speech (complete with profanity, karaoke, and crying) for the enjoyment of all in attendance, consider it done.

Congratulations, Frans. I love you. And though you now have a Chris to complement your Kerri, know that I will forever be the Hans to your Frans.

Also: You better start preparing for the bachelorette party I’ll be hosting in your honor. Your wedding is my excuse to become grossly intoxicated, act immaturely, and behave inappropriately. It’s going to be awesome.