If you count a clandestine religious ceremony done on a whim in the middle of lockdown, then I’ve been married for five years. Such was our story (which featured a Romeo and Juliet-adjacent plot of angry families, forbidden love, and different religions) that we never had time for traditions. We didn’t give each other rings, and there was certainly no proposal. But I’m just a girl, and I want one, which means my kind-of-husband, Jack, is under strict instructions to propose properly one day, which we will then follow with a more public legal ceremony. I also want him to get me the perfect ring (a salt and pepper diamond, set in gold and preferably made by We Are Arrow on London’s eclectic Columbia Road), and he needs to make sure I’ve had a manicure beforehand. I don’t care how he does it, but I won’t be happy if he proposes to me and my nails aren’t freshly done. I wouldn’t say no — I do love him, after all — but I’ll be damned if a crusty cuticle dares feature in my engagement announcement photos.
