As far as I'm concerned, anyone who says a woman can't have a hand in the selection of her engagement ring is absolutely wrong. Of course we can, if we want to; we're the ones wearing the damn things.
Once we'd had the "I'm ready if you're ready" conversation, my then-boyfriend and I had an afternoon of browsing jewellery shops. I decided I wanted an emerald on a gold band, and then left the rest up to him. Fast-forward eight or so months, and we're in the Yves St Laurent Gardens in Marrakech. It's around 8:30am, and it's my birthday. I turn around from taking a photograph of a particularly Instagram-ready potted plant and he's down on one knee. I scream and leap backwards into aforementioned potted plant.
Neither of us can remember what was said, or what happened next. I do remember that his hands were shaking, and the sun came out, and he had to prompt me for an answer. But that's pretty much it. I'd imagined all of those things. But what I hadn't imagined was that when he opened the ring box, it would be the least interesting thing about the whole situation. It received a cursory glance before we hugged (both of us), began breathing again (him), and cried (me).
It wasn't until after this that I actually looked at the ring itself. It wasn't what I had expected: It was an emerald, yes, but not the picture I'd had in my mind's eye. But do you know what? I fell in love with it instantly. Because what really matters is what that ring means: It's a symbol of our relationship, and it's a symbol of those perfect few moments on a sunny Saturday morning in Morocco.