Or I will, anyway, in March.
That’s right, the Boyfriend is now the fiancée, and he’ll soon be the husband. We’re going to Las Vegas during my university’s spring break, and we’ll get married there. Little else has felt so perfect, so recklessly wonderful, in ages.
People keep asking me about the ring. About how he asked. About what the date will be. But the truth is that there is no ring, and he didn’t ask. The truth is that I proposed (!) the idea as a half-joke, and he went for it. The truth is that we’ve been kicking the idea of getting married around for months. The truth is that if I weren’t in it for the long-haul already, I wouldn’t have moved myself and the Little Jedi to another state and condemned myself to a 2-hour work commute. The truth is that if he weren’t in it for the long haul, then he would never have decided to take on the responsibility of step-fatherhood.
I’m not one to totally discard traditional ideas of marriage, engagement, and commitment; those ideas still hold their own power in my life, even if I deviate from the norm on occasion. But some things, like diamond rings and large ceremonies, just don’t matter. I’d rather have the memories of travel and save that money for a down-payment on a house here in New Orleans, our home.