I figured it was just one of those classic jeweler jokes.

The ring specialist, an older, gentle looking man, had emerged from the back room and sat down in front of me.

“Sorry I’ve been back there so long,” he said, matter-of-factly. “The stone popped out of the setting and now I can’t find it.”

I smile and laugh. He is too calm to be serious. Though he is sweating rather profusely.

“Wait, are you serious?” I ask, my smile slipping.

“Oh yeah, it just popped out,” he replied. “I’m sure it will show up though. Couldn’t have gone too far.”

This was not the news I’d wanted to hear.

My easygoing, moderately paced engagement plan had already taken an unexpected turn. My hopefully-future-fiance, Laura, had recently been notified that she’d be deployed to Africa to help with the Ebola outbreak (a different story for a different time). That left me with five days to complete my multi-month find-the-absolutely-perfect ring process before she left. Assuming, of course, my twilight blue Montana sapphire surfaced from this apparent gemstone Bermuda Triangle.

I don’t mention the specific sapphire I eventually proposed with to brag — mainly because it wasn’t that expensive. But, I must admit, I’ve become relatively proficient in the jewelry department over the last four or five months.

My good friend’s mom is a jeweler in Pennsylvania and she’s always been brilliant when picking out necklaces, earrings and charms for Laura in the past. I’d planned to lean on her. A lot. Too much. Actually, I’d hoped she’d just immediately send me Laura’s ideal ring without me having to do anything.

I quickly discovered that isn’t how engagement ring shopping works.

I’d worked at a jewelry store in high school, but never actually internalized any of the information. After months of stressing over rose gold vs. white gold, and half bezels and princess cuts, I felt that I’d mastered the bling basics.

Knowing that Laura wanted something a bit understated, I asked her how big a diamond is too big.

“Oh, I don’t want a diamond at all,” she told me.

Apparently, Laura read an article about De Beers and the billion dollar marketing scam they’d managed to pull on the world. She may have told me these feelings before, but I thought they were simply a reaction to reading the article. Turns out they were a steadfast belief.

Just my luck, the girl of my dreams doesn’t want me spending thousands of dollars on a diamond. Well, seriously, though. That meant starting over.

I eventually re-started the process and ordered a few separated pieces, hoping to mix and match for a winner. They arrived in the mail alongside the news of Laura’s deployment.

Decisions are not my forte, but this made the choice easy: Put the pieces I had together as fast as possible.

Thus, as the Seattle jeweler explained pricing and possibilities to me, disregarding the fact that my center stone was nowhere to be found, a lady rushed through the door with my blue baby in her hand. She’d found it laying in the far corner.

The jeweler grabbed the stone and made an audible sigh of relief. Then he looked up at me and quipped, “Hey, at least we know it rolls well.”