Jay: “What kind of shit deal is that?”
Meg: “This is going to be a blog entry, isn’t it?”

About an hour earlier…

Jay: “Wait, why are we at Helzberg Diamonds? I thought we were going to Best Buy.”

At six months out, Meg has resorted to outright lying to get me to where she needs me for this wedding stuff. There was some trickery in the whole engagement pictures, but Meg has truly gotten sneaky as the wedding grows closer. Dejected, I found myself spending my Saturday night at Helzberg.

Let me admit that I was actually somewhat looking forward to wedding ring shopping. I’m not sure why, but I actually thought it’d be kinda fun. And it was to a certain extent. My first reaction was to pick out the craziest looking one; I wanted something unique. I believe the term I used when I put it on my hand was “shit ugly.” After being met with a blank stare at my inquiry as to the section of rings with elvish writing, I settled on two that were different, but not completely over the top.

I ended up wearing one on each hand for a solid 10 minutes while I decided. Meg also spent the better portion of our time there deciding between two rings. In the end, we both made up our minds and decided that, rather than looking any place else, we’d just get the ones we liked there. I didn’t mention the fact that I loved the prospect of not having to go out shopping for them again. I may not have minded actually looking at rings, but for some reason the whole act of getting me out to the jeweler was a pain in the ass.

So we made our decisions without even knowing the prices of the rings. I honestly, truly believe they pump crack through the air vents there, as I was not only in a semi-coherent euphoric state, but I was not thinking clearly enough to ask ahead of time as to the average price of the rings at which we were deciding.

They check mine first.

“Ok, his is such and such dollars…”

It wasn’t all that bad actually. At this point, I’m thinking that after the engagement ring, I finally got a break (I’m curious just how many people can see where this is going already).

“Ok… and her’s is going to be… heh…”

Not a good sign.

She tells us how much Meg’s ring is going to cost. I do some quick math; her ring is three times more expensive than mine. I continue to do the math and calculate just how much her left hand is going to be worth on a regular basis. I made a mental note to invest in a handgun to carry, oh, whenever we leave the house.

We end up getting a Helzberg credit card in order to get some interest free time in which to pay off Meg’s ring (suffice it to say mine wasn’t going to be the one that broke the bank). No one can appreciate the looks that Meg and the two women behind the counter gave me when I agreed to the Helzberg credit card. It was even scarier that they, in unison, all decided to remind me that Christmas was coming.

Excited (Meg) and relieved (me), we continue our night, periodically stopping to talk about the rings.

Meg: “I can’t believe the price of my ring.”
Jay: “Ya, well, you only do it once, I don’t blame you for paying that much.”

At this point, I’m willing to bet that all of the women reading this entry just groaned out loud. Meanwhile, the men are still trying to figure out what prompted my comment at the outset of this entry.

“What do you mean blame me for paying that much? You’re supposed to pay for my ring and I pay for yours.”
“Heh, that’d be a trip, I get to pay for both the engagement ring and your wedding ring, while you get away with my inexpensive (I was smart enough not to say cheap) ass (I still said ass) wedding ring.”
[blank stare]

You learn something new every day…

For a while now, I’ve had an idea of how much easier my life will be than Meg’s on the day of the wedding. As I learned that her dress has enough different pieces to rival a suit of armor, the prospect of having to wear a tuxedo seems considerably less daunting. I’m also aware that this Arthurian contraption has to be surgically grafted onto her body without disturbing the Michelangelo-esque paint job that her makeup person will have applied a few hours earlier. Seven months out from the wedding, she’s already in the process of growing out her hair so she can wear it up that day. I’m starting to realize that the big foo-foo princess dress is not only for the bride, but it also serves to give me a indication that this woman, who looks nothing like the girl I was engaged to, is in fact Meg.

To assist in all of this (in addition to a number of other things that will have to wait for another blog entry), Meg has acquired the help of a Wedding Coordinator simply for the day of the wedding. Mary Jane will assist Meg in the multi-hour process of performing the aforementioned rituals. The princess motif continues.

Recently, more attention has been called to the fact that men have it easier, even though as I said we’re still a good seven months out. Meg’s begun the process of looking for bridemaids dresses. My feeble, non-married-man mind had previously thought that picking bridesmaids dresses simply meant choosing a color. To me, all dresses effectively look the same, simply showing varying degrees of the woman’s back.

Not surprisingly, I was wrong. Meg cornered me and had me look at the catalog. Because of the disturbing quantity and insane subtlety in dress differences, I was able to easily convert the catalog into a flip book. Also not surprisingly, Meg was not amused.

So why do I say I’m happy to be the guy in all this? Well to begin with, my attire at the wedding is largely dictated. The only real choice is which non-After Hours formal wear store to recruit. Furthermore, the uniform of my groomsmen is also largely dictated. On the morning of the wedding, while Meg is beginning her Kafka transformation into The Bride, I’ll still likely be asleep, or at very least out to breakfast with the groomsmen (none of which will even have showered at this point). The biggest challenge I’ll likely face will be adjusting the tuxedo vest to fit my torso. Hell, the tie is a clip on, could they dumb it down anymore?

Meg offered to hire Mary Jane’s assistant to help me while getting dressed. Despite my sincerest efforts to find an excuse to procure myself a servant, I could not think of even a superficial reason as to why I would need someone that morning.