At a gathering with my parents this Christmas, my boyfriend gave me a ring. It was so beautiful. It was . . . it was “precious.” Everything was great until my mom, looking down her spectacles, asks, “So what kind of ring is this,” all Roy D. Mercer style. He responded that it was a “ring of commitment.” The “ring of commitment” didn’t fit my big old booty-proportionate hands. (My hands are the proportional equivalent of my booty.) Shortly after Christmas, the ring had to be re-sized to fit me. I received it today.
For some reason I assumed everyone already knew about my Christmas present and the sizing issues I had with it; therefore, when I finally posted the photo a month later on my Facebook page, it didn’t occur to me that one might take the picture as an “announcement.” About ten “likes” and eight comments later, I realize that maybe I’m sending the wrong message. So I respond saying thanks for the comments, but it’s not official. What am I supposed to say, “false alarm”? About twenty comments, twenty five “likes,” and one woman rushing to my desk to grab my hand later, I realize I have lost control of the situation.
So now everyone thinks we are engaged, and that’s not the sort of pressure I want to put on him. And now I have a ring and no fiance and bunch of over-zealous, well-intentioned, friends who aren’t coming to an imaginary wedding where there won’t be one ring to rule them all. . . . I just don’t know.