It’s official.  There’s a ring on my left hand and marriage license paper work in my day planner.

It was very anti-climatic, as we’ve known it was inevitable - just something we needed to get around to doing.  On Monday, he came back from a fishing trip in time to accompany me on some chores and on a whim I looked up antique jewelry and jotted down a store that was on the way home.

(ST told me long ago that I really had to pick the ring out.  I would be the one wearing it, so I should really have the say in what it looked like.  While I get that that might bug some women, I wasn’t upset over the lack of surprise.  I’m very picky with jewelry, left-handed, and do lots of rough work in my day-to-day.  I needed to feel that the ring would hold up to the rigors of my life, and something that didn’t make me barf.)

(And a few weeks ago, I decided I really didn’t want a new ring.  They are, in my opinion, more expensive and with less personality.  Also, ever the recycler, there seems something green and less blood-on-my-hands about older diamonds.)

Anyway, the first store did not pan out but they suggested a few other places to check out.  ST was rather sore from fishing (deep sea), but wanted to soldier on since we’d gotten that far.  The second store and several beautiful pieces, but nothing that fit my lifestyle.

The last store, which it’s possible we walked past on our very first date, was more of a true jewelry store than antique.  But when I mentioned our criteria (not gold-gold and low settings), an estate piece was produced that seemed perfect.  Except the large middle stone had been removed so it was difficult to picture.  After a few fittings of gems (including a blue topaz), we chose a diamond and waited for it to be set.

He gave it to me in the kitchen when we got home.  Kitchens seem to be where I get proposed to.

On a side note, the aforementioned fishing trip meant that I had had the weekend to myself.  I had pleaded off ill from the sanctuary halfway through Saturday, but came home to do a mad cleaning as the realtor had called for a 5pm showing.

That wasn’t great fun, but it let me appreciate the condo again.  And left me with an immaculate home to veg out in for the rest of the weekend.

I enjoyed my time alone - afterall, I purchased this place for ME.  I’ve always felt comfortable, safe and happy here by myself.  And alone meant getting things done when I wanted, where I wanted.  It meant staying up until 11pm (!!).

It meant sleeping alone.  That second night, I tossed and turned.

I may be able to live with out him.  I may even be able to enjoy it.  But I certainly enjoy it a hell of a lot more when he’s here.  For other people, that may not be the greatest criteria for a lifelong relationship.  But for a loner like myself, someone who has never spent extended time with any person and not begged for a time out, it says a lot.