The way in which I got married was not exactly the stuff of Hollywood. There was no scoreboard at halftime, no rose petals in my apartment, no fancy dinner full of tears and endless descriptions of the love we had found.
There was me. There was him. And that was enough.
There were discussions for over a year. There was exactly one decision made during all those discussions: we loved each other and we wanted to be together.
So whether you count the 6am whisper into my sleeping ear of "we should really get married" or the Xanax-induced decision of a feasible plan as the real moment of our engagement, one thing is true of both moments: there was no ring.
And honestly, I didn't want one.
I hated the idea of us using money we didn't have. I hated the idea of someone potentially suffering for days and months while mining the stone for said ring. I didn't need something to prove what we have. I live it. I love it. I trust it.
BUT.
And it's a big butt. I mean a big BUT.
This month, we had another ring made, from some small diamonds that I had in a necklace and ring from my maternal grandmother. And I LOVE it. It's not flashy, but it does feel more substantial. AND I LOVE IT.
Instead of sitting around in a safe deposit box, those tiny sparklers are now going to be worn. After nearly 30 years of waiting for their chance to shine, I have found a way for them to be useful again!
When I look at it, I think of my grandmother and my sweet husband. A lady who wanted me to have beautiful things and a man who wants me to be happy. And I can assure the world that I am both: a woman who owns beautiful things and one who is extremely happy.
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