I’ve always hoped to chart a graceful course between the Charybdis of the premature Pinterest board the and the Scylla of the interminable affiancement.
To be fair, my ship has veered more than slightly towards the former. I’m a Georgia transplant to California, after all — what better cover could there be for bleating loudly and proudly about my domestic desires (6 kids ASAP, pls) and jewelry tastes (it’s never too early in the relationship to proclaim to your boyfriend, apropos of absolutely nothing — “Pavé is PASSÉ!” / “Halo? Hell, no.” / Or the chillingly factual: “Marquise cut is the cut whose wearers have the highest divorce rate.” Hey, you can’t leave these things to chance and innuendo.)
Anyway, lately we are drifting back towards no-plans-on-the-books Scylla. I’m reminded of this upon remembering that the trip we just took to Italy was to be our honeymoon. This was a random designation, albeit, which I had meant to blog about but ran out of time (précis: Deepak and I booked no fewer than 7 round-the-world trips on Star Alliance carriers upon learning that United was devaluing frequent flier miles).
I’m no longer bothered by our casual drifting towards the altar. My grandmother certainly has her pointed comments, but they come in pretty muted from her perch in South Cackalacky. (She has always shared such gems of wisdom as: “Never play baseball till he furnishes the diamond!” Hm. Now that he’s dutifully furnished a non-pavé/non-halo/non-marquise, does this mean she’s OK with any hypothetical premarital roundings of home plate?)
How could I complain about such a life? I’ll just use this time and these travels to get ideas for my “Cute Reception Ideas!” pinboard.