My husband proposed to me over text from a porta-potty

• We had been together only a few months when my now-husband had to go to military training.
• I knew we wouldn't be able to talk while he was gone, so when he texted me, I got butterflies.

It was midsummer in the desert, and the air was filled with an unpleasant steam. Yet this was where my now-husband chose to propose — from the porta-potty, into which he had snuck his phone.

It was disgusting. It was also disgustingly romantic.

He was at training for a month and wasn't supposed to use his phone

He was deployed for a training exercise, a full month in "the sandbox," where he would prepare to go overseas. The idea was to make everything as realistic as possible, they said — or at least less cushy than home, lest it not feel like combat.

He was still stateside, and while he had his phone and full service, what he did not have was permission to use it.

He had been at training for three weeks. Though we'd been together only a few months, being away from me and not talking to me every day was difficult.

So he made a plan: He would sneak his phone during his next restroom break so we could text, which would make any woman swoon.

I hadn't heard from him in weeks and was shocked when he started blowing up my phone.

The messages came in fast and furious. He told me he missed me and asked how I was doing and what I had been up to. Did I miss him, too?

"Of course, I did," I told him.

But I was confused. How could he message me? He had warned me of the no-phone rule several times over.

He was in the porta-john, he said, and had snuck in his phone and turned it on because he missed me and wanted to get in touch.

It was the most romantic gesture I'd ever experienced. He willingly spent extra time in a hot, steamy, reeking porta-potty just for the chance to send a few texts. He subjected himself to a level of smell that I didn't want to consider — for me.

What. A. Man.

He told me he wanted to marry me. I wanted to marry him, too.

A few messages later, he made an even-bigger declaration.

When he got home, he said, we were getting married: "I love you and I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you."

I responded that I loved him, too. "OK, let's do it! I want to!" I said.

And then he signed off and headed back to work.

I was elated, ready to gush about our happily ever after. Yet I couldn't speak with him until his next bowel movement.

As much as I love our story, I'm glad there was no photographer.

Our engagement was fast, but it was perfect

Before he went to training, we had known each other for five months after meeting on a dating app. Our engagement felt fast — and it was fast, as all our friends pointed out. But I didn't need even a minute to think about it.

Technically, he didn't even ask me to marry him; he didn't need to. He simply told me he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, and I'd known I felt the same way since early on in our relationship.

When we met, I told myself, "This guy is something. I can see myself falling for him." And then I did, immediately. It was clear he was the type of man who would break the rules for me, who felt so strongly he couldn't wait to confess his feelings, even if that meant doing so in a porta-potty. It was all part of the appeal.

Later, he told me that it was the traveling that made him want to propose. He didn't like being away from me and didn't want to ever do it again. I felt the same way, of course. I felt it before he ever left.

Two weeks later, a week after he arrived back home, we were married in a wedding that was as unceremonious as the proposal. It was an afternoon backyard affair that we celebrated over barbecue and cheap beer. But it was never a party I wanted, nor a public confession; it was him.

And did I mention he let me choose my own ring?

Nearly nine years later, he's still mine.