Getting started. March 27, 2007

I looked at engagement rings Sunday afternoon.
 
(Notice how I typed that all calm, cool and collected-like? As If I was typing “I ate strawberries today at lunch.” It’s called a front, because in my head it’s more like: HOLY SHIT I LOOKED AT ENGAGEMENT RINGS SUNDAY AFTERNOON AND NOW I KNOW MY RING SIZE AND WHAT KIND OF RING I WANT AND I WILL PROBABLY BE ENGAGED IN THE NEXT FEW MONTHS OMG OMG OMG, etc.)
 
It started on Saturday evening. I put on my lowest cut shirt and my tightest jeans and accompanied the boy to Dylan Prime. I was in the mood for steak and red wine and creamed spinach and dim lighting and the cobblestone streets of TriBeCa. And also, cheese fondue because the cheese fondue at Dylan Prime is like five thousand liquidated orgasms into which you can dip bread, apples, fried onions and bacon (in my perfect world, those would be the four food groups, though I might swap gummy bears for apples).
 
Sometime between the filet mignon and the dessert menus, M asked me my ring size. Casually, as if he was asking about the next day’s weather forecast.
 
I choked a bit on my sip of Chianti. He laughed.
 
“I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean to catch you off guard. It’s just…I think that we should get the process started.”
 
I was drunk at that point, which meant that I took his face in between my hands and showered him with kisses to the point of embarrassment.
 
And then I admitted that, uh, actually I don’t know my ring size. Or, really, the type of engagement ring I want.
 
“Well, maybe we should get on that.”
 
And get on that I did. By dragging my best friend to the Upper East Side the very next day. First, we stopped at the nail salon to get pale pink Essie painted onto our fingernails. Then we slipped into a tiny, upscale jewelry store where I found out not only my ring size (a six! Just like my regular size! But is six considered fat in the finger world? I have nothing to compare it to) but also the type of engagement ring I would like to come in that size, should M still want to marry me if it turns out my fingers are, in fact, considered fat.
 
Just like I “just know” that I want to marry M, I also “just knew” the moment the jeweler slipped on a two-karat, round brilliant cut diamond set in a platinum band with channel settings on either side. (Note: I have no idea if that’s the correct way to describe the ring but just go with it okay? I’m a rookie.)
 
The closest thing I could find on the internet was this:
 

Gasp! I know! It’s stunning and it makes my not-yet-engaged little heart go pitter patter.
 
It’s not all about the ring, I know. It never will be about the ring. The ring is just icing on a very solid, very lovely, downright delectable relationship cake. But since M brought it up and since M encouraged me to get on it and since M and I have decided that we’re getting the process started…I think I’m allowed to squee a bit about the ring, okay? Even if I only wore it temporarily and then the mean jeweler made me give it back and assured me that, no, unfortunately he couldn’t let me borrow it. No, not even “just for the day.” Hell, not even just for an hour! Trust me, I tried!
 
This all feels very surreal. And, at the same time, it all feels very right.