The House of Bling

I was prepared for the equivalent of a Lewis and Clark expedition. How could I possibly establish what was the best ring in all of humanity for us? This would be the second greatest thing of beauty in the world next to her. What were my chances of finding it anytime soon?

The reasoning for the in-house consultation was threefold:

1. To surround you with an attitude: “Don’t you feel yourself being refined simply by being in the presence of all this good taste?”
2. To muddle your thought patterns by emitting brain-altering sparkle from the display cases
3. To have the most attractive person on the sales staff tell you how tasteful you are and assist you with rings that are 20 to 25 percent more expensive than your stated budget

I was prepared for this. I also knew not to look my temptress directly in the eyes or teeth, both glistening and capable of draining my budgetary resolve. If it were the heyday of the airline industry, she and her blue blazer would have been the jewel of Singapore Air’s service with a smile. Doh! I looked at the smile. I began writing a mental letter to Penthouse. I quickly kidney punched myself to regain focus and stated the following:

“Metal—platinum, setting—solitaire. There are four Cs that are important, and I will recognize them if I hear them, so don’t try and pretend cost is one. I want something traditional but with a touch of uniqueness. My six-month financial projections indicate a budget of this much,” as I wrote down a figure and passed it across the counter. (I was far from this cool, but I must use discretion with dollar figures.)

A bold first move, but she was ready, and as crafty as my Bond impersonation was, it was to no avail.

“Let’s see what we can find in that range. Did you have a particular style you liked?” she asked.

I pointed. She swooped, her French manicured nails cutting through the air of conceit stored in the display case with ease.

“This is near your figure. We could always special order something smaller,” she said, presenting the smallest ring on display in my preferred style.

There was shrinkage on the spot. Had I been dipped in the cold water of cheapness? Would I be more comfortable at the dinged-bling bin behind the curtain of shame? Fight on, brave warrior! I smirked to myself, knowing I had duped the duper by giving a figure below my actual budget to account for the up-sell, but the tension in my scrotal region did get my attention.

Then came: “Your total with sales tax will be…”

Sales tax! How dare the state of California take advantage of the hopelessly in love under the pretense of improving roads and the educational system!

“How many months same-as-cash am I eligible for?” I asked, my voice still a bit squeaky from the scrotal contraction.

After the finer points of the financing were agreed to, easy payments not included, I was told The Ring would be back in a week or so from the resizing. Given the surprise I was shooting for, my instructions were specific.

“Don’t call me. I’ll call you,” I said.

- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival