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FEBRUARY 15, 1997: New York City, U.S.A. - This was the day we got engaged.
I'm being totally honest when I say I wasn't expecting
it. The topic of marriage had certainly come up; after
all, we'd been dating for two years at that point, and
had known each other for ten. But an honest discussion
earlier in the week had resulted in the mutual conclusion
that despite the societal pressure caused by the
approaching Valentine's Day, Ryan and I wouldn't cave in
and would, indeed, wait until the time was better. After
all, the past few weeks had been hellish. Work at that
time was a source of great stress for both of us, me
because of my irregular, long hours and an insane boss
who was later removed from any position of authority, Ry
because he was up for a job he really wanted, but had yet
to hear whether or not he'd gotten it.
So, we decided to celebrate "National Let's- Make -
Hallmark -Rich" day by going to dinner and a show.
And, as I fully expected, there was no proposal, and I
was fine with that.
Really.
It wasn't until the next night, Saturday, that the
overwhelming feeling that I wanted to marry this man once
again swept over me like a dry breeze in the Sahara (like
I would know). We were sitting in my shoebox apartment,
watching a movie on video. The film was, of all things,
"A Time to Kill," with Sandra Bullock and
Matthew McCaughney. After returning from one of the many
bathroom breaks I seemed to need that particular night, I
stood in front of Ryan, naked emotionally if not
physically, and said, "You know, I just want you to
know that I really want to marry you. I know we said we
wouldn't do it this weekend, and that's fine. But I just
want you to know that the way I feel at this very moment,
I'd get in a car, if I owned one, and drive to Maryland
or someplace where you can get married right away, and
make you my husband. I love you that much."
To be honest, I don't remember exactly what Ryan's
response was. It must've been, at the very least,
positive, because we didn't have a fight.
Fast forward 20 minutes. I get up to use the bathroom
again (I must've had beer that night, or coffee, or
prunes). When I return, the room is dark. Candles are
spread around the room, lit from within, their flickering
fire reflecting off the ivory walls. Ryan hands me the
box of Valentine's chocolates that he'd given me the
night before, and tells me to help myself to one. Being
the quick study that I am, I say "No thanks,"
and go back to watching the film. He persists; "No,
really, take one," he repeats. I open the box.
Inside is a red pouch made of Asian silk, with yellow
trim. I take it out and open it up. Inside of it is the
ring.
The ring. The first time I laid eyes on it, at his
parents house in New Jersey, I'd immediately hinted, in
the subtle manner possessed by New Yorkers, that I'd like
to have it, should we become engaged. It belonged to his
maternal grandmother, who, sadly, had died a few years
before Ryan and I started dating.
It's a stunning ring. It's not large in size, it's not
grandiose, it's not fancy, modern, sleek, or even
particularly sophisticated. It's certainly a great deal
smaller than the rings I saw on my friends and colleagues
in New York, nearly all of whom sported the same
platinum, 1.45 carat diamond in a simple solitaire
setting. No, it's none of those things, although they're
all lovely. My ring is old, it's antique, it was bought
in Detroit in the 1920's. It's white gold with small
diamonds inset throughout; one larger one sits in the
middle, and smaller chips don either side. The setting is
antique, and the craftsmanship is spectacular. The adage
"They don't make ‘em like they used to"
truly applies in the case of this ring.
So my boyfriend of two years, my friend of ten, was down
on one knee, lit only by candles, asking me to marry him.
I cried, and said yes.
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