Ring The Alarm

A few days ago, the boy told me that the ring he intended to get for me that was a family heirloom was just not...good.  The conversation went something like this:

Him:  I saw the rings today.
Me:  Yeah?
Him: Mmmmm.....
Me:  Yeah?
Him:  Not what I thought...
Me:  Yeah?
Him:  It's dented and well...
Me:  Yeah?
Him:  I don't think it's a real diamond.
Me:  Oh.

So there's some truth for you - diamonds matter.  They do.  To me.

I know we don't have a lot of money, so when Cita texted to ask me about my bling, I told her that I didn't think I was getting any.  It's OK, I told her.

Uh-huh.  We both know me, right?  But of course I love the boy more than I love jewelry.

Mostly.

Last night, I told the boy that the ring I currently wear, Momma's engagement ring, was not given to her when she got engaged, but was given a few years after my folks got married.  It's true, and I didn't want the boy to feel badly for not giving me the ring.

He told me to look for a present that he had hidden for me - it was under the couch.  It was a bottle of wine we had on our date, called Dulce Cristina.  I was amazed and so happy.

I turned with it in my hand, to thank him, and then I saw something sparkly.  And then I noticed that he was on one knee.  And then he asked me again to marry him, and he put the ring on my finger.



And I love it.  And I love him.

Later I told him that he must like it, 'cos he put a ring on it.