Ever tried taking a diamond engagement ring through airport security, onto an overnight flight, through customs, onto a cab, high-speed train, another cab, to a hotel, into a safe, out of the safe, into a ski jacket, onto a ski lift, onto the slopes, down the slopes, up again a few times, and onto a woman's finger in 36 hours? Not so easy, I assure you.

The whole caper began quite innocuously with a plan, a plan to propose to the woman I love. The execution, however, well...therein lies the tale.

Like a good boyfriend, I of course had no idea what style of ring Karen liked. So I turned to 'the other man' - her best friend, Noah. While he dug through boxes of books looking for a note Karen scribbled years ago in a drunken haze, detailing her 'perfect ring', I took a crack at it myself and made my way to the Tiny Jewel Box, the one jewelry store I knew she loved. The three or four rings I noted seemed nice, her style.

A few days later, I returned to the TJB with Noah, my sister, Jennifer, and a credit card. Noah unleashed the note. Nothing like what I had picked. According to the drunken scrawl, she liked 'simple design. BIG ROCK! Square cut'. I had chosen 'elaborate design, SPARKLY PEBBLES, brilliant cut'. Shifting gears, I made a decision on an Asscher cut diamond in a simple U-shaped setting - that allowed you to see the whole stone - and a smooth band.

A couple weeks later, and one day before leaving for the ski trip, I had the (heretofore) uninsured Ring in hand and a few more moths flying out of the wallet. Let me tell you, nothing says 'easy mark!' in my DC 'hood than a jewelry-box-sized lump in the pocket and a quick step in the gait.

At the airport the next day, despite my protestations, the TSA security guard made me put The Ring through the X-ray machine. Now, call me crazy, but do women have to put their hands through the X-ray machine? Why do men with small jewelry boxes get singled out? Ponder, please. Despite the anxiety of being away from The Ring for 7.2 seconds, the guard gave me a wink and a 'nice job on the bling.' I felt ready for the 6 hour flight.

Onboard, the inside jacket pocket was checked every 2-3 minutes. I slept, Napoleon-esque, with my hand under the jacket. I'm sure no one noticed.

Finally in France, I was whisked to the Gare d'Lyon and onto the train down to the region Savoie with Karen and her parents. Upon greeting all at the train station, none suspected or felt the small, hard lump in the coat pocket.

In the hotel at last, I discovered the room's safe and its tendency to squeak when opened or closed. As it was positioned inches from the lavatory, I would have a helluva time accessing the thing any time Karen was in the room with me, which was basically every moment. Plans were made to 'huh, here's this safe again, cool' or 'oh wait, forgot my shoe. I'll be right back.' I knew the flimsy excuses couldn't last long. It had to be Day 1 that this Thing was distributed to the correct recipient.

Day 1 arrived, The Ring in ski jacket (removed from safe when Karen was washing her face), skis on feet. Plan: make our way to the top of one of the lifts where it would be sunny and warm and crowded with people and local photographers snapping touristy shots. Down on knee I'd go, box would be opened, people would ooh & ahh, Karen would tear up, photographers would go ape-s$%^, we'd ski into wedded (well, at least engaged) bliss, perfect plan.

Day 1: cold and completely shrouded in fog. Couldn't see 10 feet in front of you. I fell, face first, on the 2nd run - because I couldn't see the big mogul 10 feet in front of me. Heart in throat and snow in nose, I quickly checked The Ring box for any dents, abrasions, or missing rings. None found. All is well. The day wore on, no sun, no proposal. Lower down the mountain it was snowing, but who wants to get engaged at 3,000m when you can get engaged at 4,000m!! Higher up, the fog was primordial.

On the lift to our last run, the fog was so thick the cable disappeared into a gray void a few feet behind and in front of us. One or two voices could be heard in the distance. Were they below us? On the next car ahead? Was it us speaking? We couldn't tell. Off the lift, I decided, this has to be it. Karen's tired, skiing is useless. I am NOT going through with another day of room-safe shenanigans. About half-way down the route , we stopped to get our bearings, though none could be found: we were skiing through gray pea soup. I also couldn't hear any voices. Other than the one saying, 'Do it NOW. It's now or never. Or, at least...tomorrow.'

Heeding the voice, I removed the skis while Karen turned away, finding the trail markers. I removed The Ring from the jacket pocket and said, romantically, 'Hey, come over here.' I got down on one knee, on the side of some snowy mountain in southern France, enveloped in fog, not a soul for miles, as far as we could tell. Not a voice but mine asking Karen if she'd marry me.

She said, 'Oh oh, honey...what are you do- Holy ___ look at that ring!'

We skied down through the fog, back down the mountain to our warm, cozy room with an empty safe, and a new ring, firmly ensconced after a long journey home.

posted by Groom @ 4:28 PM