Here is how I know that there’s an engagement ring in my future. Last week, upon finding myself very angry at PIC for a number of seemingly important reasons, I texted my girlfriend Caroline and asked her to meet me for Center City Sips.
We talked shop for a while (me, the Lady Hoofers; her, the Old City Sweethearts) and then got down to business: bitching about our boyfriends.
In truth, Caroline didn’t actually do much bitching. It was, I could tell, mainly sympathetic bitching, offered primarily to make me feel like I’m not the only person in the world who has to deal with an ungrateful partner after I’ve spent ALL DAY redecorating and vacuuming and okay… mainly redecorating.
Come on. It’s not easy making random clutter look this good, flowers from PIC in the foreground not withstanding…
But still. Redecorating takes stamina.
At any rate, PIC had no idea I was even mad at him, as evidenced by the fact that he was, at that very moment “having happy hour with some co-workers on South Street.”
I use the quotation marks because he never goes to happy hour with his co-workers. Certainly not all the way on South Street.
“Do you want to meet up for dinner, for our anniversary?” he texted.
“I’m downtown,” I texted back. “And I’m mad at you.”
I turned back to Caroline and our order of risotto balls. “Does he think I’m going to just drop everything and run on over to South Street? I mean seriously…”
But then it hit me.
He wasn’t drinking with his co-workers. He was shopping. For an engagement ring.
I know this because Bario-Neal, the locally-owned, sustainable, ethically responsible jewelry store I’ve been dropping oh-so-subtle hints about for the past three months is just off of South Street, and when I casually asked him what “bar” he and co-workers had gone to, he “couldn’t remember.”
A rather drool-worthy little bauble from the Bario-Neal website…
I could be a detective.
