Til Death Do Us Part

My fiancé and I awoke Saturday morning, fully rested, mildly hungover, and eager to tackle those two words newly resident in our house — WEDDING PLANNING. We went out to a lovely breakfast at J. Christopher's, visited the extremely knowledgeable jewelers at F.P.Wortley, and then headed, without ado (sorry Dad), to the tattoo parlor.

Allow me to provide you some insight. This is the man, my fiancé, whom I guided through a claustrophobic panic attack on a commercial jet. The man whose hand I held, stark white, after a dramatic incident when his blood was drawn. And this is the man who never dreamed he'd get a tattoo, because nothing could ever be worth the pain, the agony, and, worst of all, the permanence of such a gesture.

And here he is, peacefully feigning sleep, while I reveal my excitement.

The truth is, we were giddy about our new marks. Each other's initials, to go beneath the rings, and to forever signify a union we will soon make tangible with flowers, vows, and enthusiastic tears. (And champagne!)

An N on my hand, and a C on his. Proof of our eternal love and his newfound cool. Now, on to more wedding planning!