There’s a ring on my finger that has a neat little roll of painter’s tape wrapped around the band to help hold it in place.

This story starts last August, when Mr and I returned home from a family reunion. (I guess it really starts in January 2008 when I met a man wearing a toque who had very handsome arms, but that is a story for a different post, methinks). He had spent the day getting interrogated by various great aunts and second cousins as to why we weren’t married yet. It was interrogation (mostly) in jest, but interrogation nonetheless.

Our friend Mykola came over to the house afterward, and in response to Mr’s airing of his frustrations at having been questioned all day, Mykola asked, “Well, why aren’t you guys married yet?”

(He always knows the perfect thing to say).

Mr, in a perfectly Mr sort of way, did an about face and asked with a small measure of incredulity, “How am I supposed to get her a ring if I don’t know what size her finger is?”

Let’s just say I promptly googled how to figure out what your ring size is, and communicated that to him.

Fast forward to this spring: when he got permission to use his grandma’s ring from his mum, and aunt and uncles, he took it to get sized to the numbers I had given him. Much to his surprise, the ring was already that size!

Then he waited until the moment was right.  We cuddled together on the bed, and he sang me our song, and he asked. It was perfect. I had no idea it was coming.  Mr, as you could probably tell by all of the gleeful hopping up and down, you make me the happiest person. I love you.

In the end, either the internet lied as to how to measure your ring size or I am not very good at handling directions because the ring is too large, hence the piece of tape wrapped around the band, helping it to stay in place. I know I need to get it sized properly, but I just can’t bear the thought of taking it off just yet because it feels so right.

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