What Jacko's death means to me.

I don't claim to be a major Michael Jackson fan.

Don't get me wrong, I'm always up for listening to the greatest hits, and my freshman year roommate and I once stayed up all night long watching "Thriller" on repeat so that we could learn the dance, and look super cool at the Ward activity the next night. "The Way You Make Me Feel" is the official favorite of the bunch, ever since my brief 8th grade obsession with the movie "Center Stage" (the movie preference soon died, the song preference did not). I have attempted the moon walk several times (in private) and wished I could get it down. But that's really the extent of my fanhood.

When I heard he died recently, I realized that there was a brief but undeniable Michael Jackson presence the night I got engaged.

When Harry came to pick me up from my sister's house for "dinner" (a.k.a. "sneaky secret proposal"), Elizabeth pointed out that I looked like Michael Jackson because of my shoes-- I often wear gym socks around the house because my feet are always cold. When Harry came to pick me up, for some reason I had slipped on my flats over my socks in my rush to get out the door. The gym-sock-black-flat-combination channeled the Michael Jackson vibe to my sister, and she insisted we take an "MJ" picture in commemoration.

And just for good measure, a little "Thriller..."

Something must have been right about it, because only 4 hours later...

I went from "that girl Harry dates" to "that girl Harry's marrying."

Thanks for getting the evening started out right, Jacko.