You Know It’s A Sign When You Pay For Your Own Engagement Ring And He Doesn't Even Notice
It was December 2013 in Winter Park, Florida. A beautiful little town.
If you look at the photos of me taken that night, you will see a smiling, laughing face. They are somewhat deceiving. Although everything was textbook perfect—the restaurant, the pre-arranged seating by the outdoor fireplace, the surprise roses, the bottle of champagne, the one-knee thing and all—inside I was feeling like a deer in the headlights. Every instinct in me was screaming run, no seriously, RUN.
But it was one of those events where, even though you knew for a while it was coming, you didn’t think you could stop it.
I was allowing external circumstances to sweep me along like a slow flowing river that only picks up steam right as it goes over the falls.
I had just said yes to leaving my home, a house I loved and spent eight months remodeling, the city I grew up in, my family, and my business, to move to a state I swore once I would never live in again, and become a stepmother to five children. My own son, meanwhile, was a senior in college.
So, did I step back and look rationally at what was going on? No.
I immersed myself in wedding details, flowers, colors, and the ever-growing guest list. All of which I was paying for.
The wedding dress I ordered, a Temperley London, was magnificent. Reminiscent of the 1920s, intricately beaded, with a drop waist and tulle overlay that gave it an ethereal feel. Elegant, but understated.
I loved it.
Only one problem. It was about a size and a half too small.
That should have been an omen.
It was expensive and non-returnable. Lucky me.
The thing is, it was doable if I lost about eight pounds. Not an unreasonable goal. I had five months.
But I wasn’t making any effort to do that, interestingly enough.
Oh yes, I guess I left out a few details.
I was, to date, $37,000 lighter than I had been six months earlier.
Due to the $20,000 deposit I paid on a large Southern Living design house in a charming neighborhood where moss hung from the oaks and the homeowners association controlled the lawns.
It was a beautiful house. The only shining spot in the area I would soon be calling home.
The downside was that the house I currently owned would be sold as the down payment.
Or so he alluded to anyway. And that wasn’t the only “sign.”
I was mid construction on my dream home.
Our first meeting after an 8 month relationship built over the phone came when I was mid construction. My house was a disaster zone. The contractor I hired, another good lesson in listening to your gut, is a story of its own.
As our time together went, it couldn’t have been better. He was beautifully calm in the face of my construction mania, the perfect date for a friend’s wedding, charming, and was very protective of me. It felt like a deep exhale. And I believed I could let go of some of the things I was carrying. Like I would finally have support.
Uh, that would be a no.
Five months later, on my birthday, he calls to ask if I can wire him $2,000. That day, like at that moment.
Did I mention I was on the way out of town for a yoga conference in New Orleans, where he was supposed to meet me? So in addition to trying to pack, take my dog to the vet, catch a train, wrap up business details, and secure the house, I had to go to the bank, make a withdrawal, and wire money to him.
Red flags… duh… ya think? The entire train ride to New Orleans I sat stupefied, able only to say WTF for six hours. But it gets better.
In my mind, if you don’t have the money to pay your rent, you don’t go out of town. But that must be too logical.
He not only shows up as planned, he shows up with a huge smile and every expectation that I will gladly foot the bill just to see him at my door.
Guess what? I did. Yep. The entire bill for our four-day getaway, expensive meals (did I mention he has very good taste and high standards?), hotel, entertainment, his ticket back to Birmingham, and—get this one—spending money for him while I was in training all day.
And he was very dissatisfied with the train ride accommodations to boot. He complained the entire time and wanted to know why we didn’t fly.
This was my birthday weekend. The first, and only one, we would share together.
Monday night finally arrives and I drive him to the airport, ecstatic for the time alone. And the space to sort my thoughts. The quiet lasted a brief two and a half hours. The phone rings. Guess who?
He parked in the $15-a-day parking lot, because apparently long-term parking was unreasonably inconvenient for him.
And he does not have enough money to get out of the parking lot. Which I am supposed to fix somehow 8 hours away.
Flash forward four months later to December in Winter Park. Here I sit in an elegant restaurant, placing a diamond ring on my hand that, in essence, I paid for, and smiling like I am the happiest woman in the world.
