Weddingbee

Mr. Lovebug can’t keep a secret to save his life. I learned this back when we were still dating, when, after his fifth vodka-RedBull, he told my future MOH exactly how he planned on proposing. After his seventh, he told me.

Half a year later, I knew it was in the works. Hints about a “big expenditure” and repeated trips to the safe gave THAT away (I swear, he turned into Gollum with that thing, locking his office door and checking on his precious, like, hourly).

One night while I was reading in bed, he came to me and said he wanted to see how the ring looked on my finger. I said, “What ring?”

“Ha ha,” he said.

“Well, take a knee, pal. ”

“Huh uh,” he said. “This is just a try-on. Completely unofficial.”

I put my book down. “Let me get this straight.” I said. “You want me to TRY ON my engagement ring before we’re engaged. Just to see how it fits.”

“Please?” he begged. “I really wanna see it on your hand. I’ll put it on your right hand, too, so it’s less real.”

“Less real? This is crazy,” I said. “I don’t want to see my ring before you ask me to marry you! That’s gotta be about seventeen kinds of bad luck.”

He frowned and thought for a minute. Suddenly, he had an idea. “Cover your face,” he said.

“Um, what?” I asked.

“Cover your face,” he repeated. “Put the pillow over your head and lay on your stomach so you can’t peek. That way, you’re trying it on…but not really.”

I won’t lie: I paused for only a second before obeying, intrigued by this surprise field trip to Bizarroland.

“Now reach your arm behind your back. No, further back. Ok, now hang your other hand over the bed.”

“Mrrfft??” I asked from under six inches of goose feathers.

“So you don’t touch the diamond,” he answered. Yeah, like that. Now spread your fingers. No, really wide, so you can’t feel the diamond that way, either. Come on now, jazz hands.”

And so it was in this inglorious position that I first felt the cold metal of my engagement ring slip onto my finger. Face down on my bed, head under a pillow, arm twisted behind my back, my other arm dangling over the side of the bed, fingers splayed like stars.

It only lasted a minute before he whisked it away again. But as he tucked it back into his pocket to be brought out (for good) another day, I moved the pillow and stole a look at him. The delight on his face filled the room. He was clearly bursting with excitement at what was to come.

Undignified, uncomfortable, ignoble. Totally romantic.

The prize(s) I endured this humiliation for. Clearly, “Dignity” is neither of our middle names.

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