Ten Minutes in Tiffany's

You’ll just know is what they often say in the movies. I’ve never been entirely convinced of this, believing myself to be the possessor of a below average emotional IQ. True, I’m sentimental; at times a little sensitive; a bit of an all-round bleeding heart, you might say. But it’s often the case that I’m unable to determine, at least not right away, the cause of my feelings, or even to know exactly what emotion I’m experiencing. This is frustrating to say the least. When I met Tomoki, however, some of the fog lifted, at least where love was concerned, and, for the first time really, I was able to experience it to the full, and to be overcome with a sense that everything is as it should be. It was for this reason that I asked her to marry me.

Now, in the interests of moving the story along, I will resist the temptation to elucidate, at length, all the deep philosophical epiphanies that came to me out of much quiet contemplation, and a great deal of introspection, and that led me to the conclusion that now was the right time to ask Tomoki to marry me. Instead, let me start the story from the night before I proposed—actually, let me go back a couple days more to when I had sought some advice from my good friend, Masa. Though I had a rough idea of when I would propose (at this stage I was thinking New Year’s Eve) I was very much uncertain as to how or where I would propose; and so I went to Masa wanting to know if there were any traditional Japanese customs or rules that I should observe or be aware of when proposing to Tomoki. His advice was this: “A ling! You must have a ling, man. Do you have one?” I told him I did not, but that I did fully intend to get one. “I can help you,” he offered, enthusiastically. “I’m a gonna take you to buy a ling for her.” And so, ringless, planless, and on the whole very much clueless as to how to proceed, I met with Masa two days later in Tenjin outside Mitsukoshi, a very busy department store (or depato as they call them here in Japan) which, incidentally, is Japan’s oldest department store chain (or so I’m told). From there we made our way through the throngs of people to an adjacent building, which, among other stores and businesses, is home to Tiffany’s, the world renowned jewellers hailing from New York. As we strode purposefully towards the entrance Masa asked me, “How much can you spend?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s just see what they have.”
“You should think about it because we have to tell them,” he said, referring to the sales staff. I found it all a bit distasteful to be discussing money on such an occasion; it rather felt like I was being asked to put a price on my love for Tomoki. (Of course, in the end, there is no getting around it, and I am by no means in a position to say that money and cost is of no importance.) As we entered the store, passing a somewhat aged and dignified security guard, Masa turned to me with another question, no less important than the first, “What is her ling size?”
“F**k!” I exclaimed, momentarily forgetting where I was, which, I observed, caused the old and dignified guard to raise his old and dignified eyebrows. The look on Masa’s face went from disbelieving to dispirited, and I suspected he was having thoughts along the lines of ‘You are the dumbest gaijin I know’. It was typical of the kind of small, yet crucial, detail that often seems to escape my attention.
“Baka gaijin,” he said, ruefully shaking his head. Stupid gaijin.
“How am I supposed to know her ring size?” I began my defence. “If I ask her she’ll know what I’m up to!”
“You can steal. Steal one of her lings.”
“Steal one of her rings? I don’t think she wears any.”
“You have to measure, or something like that.”

Well, despite it being quite obvious that I would not be purchasing a ring at this time, and although Masa’s enthusiasm had dropped markedly, we took a few minutes to look around, if for no other reason than to satisfy our curiosity: mine more so than Masa’s. It was a very, very humbling experience. The prices ranged from expensive to exorbitant. I could not help thinking, ‘what would happen if I went and spent a lot of money on a ring which she didn’t even fancy?’ This scenario was not at all unlikely given my history of poor present selection coupled with a near absolute ignorance of jewellery and a very unsophisticated sense of style. In any case, as we went around the store peering into the many glass encasements, I felt very much out of place—judging by the way the security guard kept a watchful eye on me I’d say he was of the same opinion. When Masa spotted a ring priced at 3.5 million Yen (roughly US$35,000) he remarked, with genuine surprise, “This one is more expensive than the one I bought for my wife.” Upon hearing this I decided that it was time to go, and so I left Tiffany’s in much the same condition and frame of mind as I had entered: ringless, planless, and still very much clueless, though somewhat less ignorant of the financial aspects of proposing.

“Okay,” Masa began, as we walked away from Tiffany’s, rejoining the crowds, “I will take you and your girlfriend to dinner, and I’m a gonna find out her ling size.”
“How?” I demanded to know. “You can’t just ask her, it’ll be too obvious.”
“Hey, I’m Masa! Leave it to me; I know how to talk to women.”