Diamond or no diamond. December 6, 2006

We’ve started to discuss New Year’s Eve in a “what do you want to do?” “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” “I don’t know” sort of way.

Productive.

To be honest, nothing can top last year.

Last year my boyfriend surprised me with tickets to London. Last year we spent five days in my favorite city in the world. Last year I got to share my favorite city in the world with my favorite person in the world. Last year we endured an abysmal dollar-to-pound ratio and a Tube strike and still had the time of our lives. Last year we also had the best sex of our lives. Last year we watched fireworks over the Thames at midnight from our hotel room. Last year he told me, for the first time, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.

Last year? Was awesome.

“Way to set the bar too high,” I said to him last night.

“I know, I’m kicking myself,” he replied.

Some people (friends, co-workers, the woman who sold me boots the other day) think it will happen, either at Christmas or at New Year’s. The down-on-one-knee. The “will you be my wife?” The diamond and the squealing.

It’s not going to. The timing is off. I know him and I know myself and I know that it’s not right. Not yet. Soon, perhaps, but not yet.

My heart will still flutter a bit with wonder as the clock approaches the first minute of 2007. It’ll skip a few beats as the “what if, what if, I know it’s not going to happen but what if” comes into play.

But I know, in the area in the general vicinity of my gut where my instincts make their presence known, that it’s not going to happen. That it will, eventually, and that when it does I will feel that it’s the right season, the right moment, the right occasion, the right time.

So, seeing as we don’t have an engagement to plan our New Year’s Eve around, I still have no freaking idea what the hell we’ll be doing. Luckily, I’m easy. As long as it involves a few bottles of red wine, a foodstuff that consists mainly of cheese and my boyfriend to kiss – all night, not just at midnight – then I’m there. Diamond or no diamond.

Sunday was… December 5, 2006

The Times for me, the Post for him. Trading sections with ink-stained hands over coffee while still in bed. Until noon.

Noting him briskly flip through the Sunday Styles Magazine, stopping only at a story about diamonds. Specifically, what to look for when buying one.

Pancakes and eggs, homemade.

Learning that Crisco is the difference between burnt and perfect.

Calling my mom because “how do you make scramble eggs again?” Hearing her and my father laugh because our daughter, she’s hopeless.

His team at 1pm, my team at 4. Moving only at half-time. And even then, only to the bed and only to have sex.

Sweatshirts. All day.

Showering. Together.

A big Italian dinner at our favorite spot to help my team’s loss go down a bit easier. Fresh-baked rolls dipped in olive oil and parmesan to start, an inhuman portion of pasta to sate, chocolate cake to finish.

Red wine. Of course.

A movie, in bed. Squeezing each other’s hands during the sweet parts, winking at each other during the sexy parts, hiding my face in his chest during the scary parts.

Hearing him whisper, through the fog of impending sleep, “I love you so much, Clink. So much.”

A delicious Sunday makes Monday that much more distasteful. It was awesome while it lasted.