THE MAGIC OF THE RING

Christa contends that The Ring bestows special powers upon its wearer. She has not been granted eternal life with the accompanying vocal tick of Gollum, but there have been hints of good fortune, as she interprets them.

For example, on the way home from informing the families, we were not able to reserve seats for the Chicago-to-LA leg of our trip. We were told to speak with the gate representative thirty minutes before flight time. We figured we would be sitting apart from one another, near the lavatories. So she “put The Ring to work,” as she described it. At the counter, she handed our tickets to the woman left-handedly and left The Ring on display on the countertop. Somehow, not possibly by the airline overbooking economy, we were given first-class seats. Ten more flight upgrades, and Tiffany and I can call it even.

Another instance of the power she experienced was that, within a single hour at the mall, three older gentlemen came up and, out of nowhere, said something like, “You’re purty.” “That stuff doesn’t happen to me,” she said.

All I could think was: That was a blessing—your very own lecherous old men? It’s a Festivus miracle.

Then I realized that the power of The Ring had been extended to me. No gloriously handsome, wealthy but humble, honest but flattering, fine piece of ass had approached her. It had been a selection of random older guys—suitors I could, hopefully, compete with easily. Suitors I could possibly out-woo on looks alone. Thank you almighty ring!
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival
 

The Gift of a Son

As we drove to Ohio to see Christa’s family, she began plotting how to impart the news to her parents. The announcement was twofold, as we had committed to moving back to the Midwest as well. With two announcements to make, Christa was obviously not about to hide the engagement any longer. But since she especially liked to scare and trick her mother, a pregnancy could be hinted at for the briefest of moments, prior to revealing the second piece of news.

As we arrived, a ribbon was tied around my head, in what was the toothache fashion of yesteryear.

Right inside the front door, she said, “Guess what I got you for Christmas—a son!”

Again, cheers from the crowd. Happiness. Ring viewing.

“This calls for a celebration,” someone said.

“Christa shouldn’t drink,” I said.

She quickly followed with, “We have a second announcement to make.”

Brilliant teamwork. Trepidation welled inside her mother—as her eyes widened and breathing paused, and she hoped an unprotected joining of the genitals had not been the reason for our engagement.

“We are moving back to Cincinnati,” Christa concluded.

A noble victory: the subject was discussed enthusiastically, partly because it wasn’t Junior on the way. Christa had initially wanted to artificially create a small “bump,” as they say.

“You don’t really want to lose her to hysteria or make her heart actually stop, do you?” I had asked.

You would never pick Christa out of a lineup as the evil mastermind behind such capers, but then, those are generally the most successful perpetrators.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

INFORMING THE FAMILIES - The Relief of Mother

We decided to inform our families in person. First, we had to decide between telling Matt and Danza, my brother and his girlfriend, who picked us up at the airport, or waiting until everyone was together at brunch the following morning. I thought a family announcement would be better. This delay was one of the most annoying periods of time for Christa.

She decided to conceal, but not remove, The Ring while we were with Matt and Danza, from about six that night until ten the following morning, and she was very nervous about it. As a veteran of hiding things, I was much more willing to test the limits. This started with a family hug, when we saw my brother at the airport, and my asking him if he liked the movie The Wedding Planner, during the car ride home.

Christa’s preferred method of secrecy was to hold her shirtsleeve over her left hand.

“You look a little gimpy,” I said.

“Shut it,” she hissed through her teeth.

She is left-handed and had to eat dinner right-handed.

“Have you used a fork before?” I asked.

“Shut it.”

Later I was told, in private, that I wasn’t making this easy. She never took The Ring off, in spite of my actions, which I considered a good sign.

So, by the time we arrived at my parents’ house, I was as ready to tell them as she was to stop the secrecy. After opening hugs and everybody assembling in the living room, I exclaimed, “All right, announcement time—we’re engaged!”

Cheers from the crowd.

“Oh, let me see,” my mom said, reaching for the ring hand.

The ring’s power and allure were overwhelming to the female consciousness. My mom was apparently “so hoping” that this moment was coming. After thirty years, she was tired of boys. My dad gave me a hug, not saying much, as he internally weighed his excitement against my momentary lack of fiscal policy.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

SETTING THE DATE

“When do you want to get married?” I asked, during our flight to Indiana for Christmas.

“I always liked September nineteenth,” she replied.

“How come?”

“It just came to me one day, and I remember talking to my sister about this date. She said it would have to be 2004.”

“In this life, while dating me, you had this vision, I hope?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“I’m sorry. I will revert back to taking directions. Do you know what day of the week that is?”

“Not a clue.”

“Hold on.”

In an underappreciated maneuver I tracked September nineteenth down from December twenty-eighth through varied month lengths and days to end at…

“It’s a Saturday. September 19, 2004, is a Saturday,” I proudly announced.

“It’s destiny!” she exclaimed.

“It’s good math,” I replied.

“What about leap year?” she inquired.

“What? Those don’t exist anymore. Don’t you realize they’re not real, like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?” I stated in defense of my calculations.

“What about Santa Claus?”

“I mean, sometimes people forget about leap years, just like Santa forgets a good little boy or girl every once in a while. You know he does a lot in one night. You have to allow for a clerical error here and there.”

“Santa doesn’t make errors.”

“Santa probably made his own calendar, years ago, that doesn’t add an extra day every four years, so his record keeping and internal calendar function are more accurate than mine,” I mumbled.

“So what day is it?”

“Saturday would be the eighteenth. I like it,” I said, hoping destiny came with a give-or-take-a-day clause.

“It’s not the same day.”

“I actually like the eighteenth better. I can be your husband one day sooner, this way. We would have to wait five or six years to get the right day of the week. Even I, Mr. Engagement Procrastinator, don’t want to wait that long.”

“Now you’re all anxious about it,” she said skeptically.

“You know I can’t stand leaving dirty dishes out overnight. Why would I want to wait an extra day to marry you? We can just go to Vegas when we land.”

“That was cute until the Vegas part. I need a church.”

“September eighteenth it is,” I said.

“How many months away is that?” she asked.

“Eight and a half.”

“According to The Knot and this wedding magazine (that she finally had a reason to purchase) we were already thirty-seven tasks behind schedule.” That news was a slight damper on the celebration.

Based on our noteworthy romantic history, she wanted to get married in Bloomington, Indiana, my hometown, which is also where she went to college, where we met, and where most of our friends previously or, at that time, resided. Whether this was an intentional move to keep the soon-to-be-infamous MOB (Mother of the Bride) at a safe distance, we may never know.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival