It seems that every day a new engagement is announced to me via social media. I’m often tempted to comment something along the lines of “Just dropping in to let you know that I saw this, but I didn’t like it on purpose.” I never do that, because I like open bars too much, but I always want to. Instead, I do what all girls do. I take this announcement with a grain of salt, and realize I’ve been given an opportunity, a gift: judgment.
Gone are the days that I can take solace in “She’s too young, she’s ruining her life,” because I’m approaching an age when my peers are neither too young, nor ruining their lives. They’re merely taking the appropriate next step at the appropriate age with the appropriate man. It’s not easy to watch. All I have left is the fact that the bride-to-be, fool that she is, has exposed the poor, vulnerable, diamond on her left hand to the social media vultures, like me. The second that announcement is made, jealous single women everywhere are out for blood. “Pictures!” they demand, not because they’re excited for you, but because they need some ammunition for the war they’ve declared against married women, and their newest target is you. You’re one of them now, and the battlefield is dangerous.
In my mother’s day, she was only subjected to fake gushing at the rings of good friends and former acquaintances she had the misfortune of running into at the grocery store. She’d then faintly recall what the ring looked like to her sisters and besties, and move on with her day. Not us. Not now. With photographs available to us for
safekeeping screenshoting, we, the jealous single women, are able to distinctly pick apart every aspect of each new specimen we see, certain that by all comparisons, our own rings will someday be superior. Not an engagement goes by without the ring being discussed by “friends” and followers in detail.
I’ve done my fair share of engagement ring judging. We all have. It seems that woven bands are “in,” and if I see another fucking halo, I will murder a puppy. While neither of those settings are my particular cup of tea — as in, if my future even entertains the idea of purchasing one of those rings, my answer will be “no” — I understand that it’s a matter of taste, and if your taste is “Do what everyone else is doing,” then that’s your decision, as long as it makes you happy. I’m sure in 2035, when someone proposes to me, plenty of people will have their opinions about my absolutely blinding left hand bling, a completely realistic 3 carat, princess cut center stone, with 1.5 carat side stones. Perhaps it will be too “gaudy” for some, but my goal is for people to see it, drop their jaws, and mouth “Oh, my God, her ring” to their friends, while having a near-seizure trying to point to it with their eyes.
Regardless of how perfect my ring will be for me, people will talk. Subtweets will be tweeted, group messages will be abuzz, and “She should be embarrassed” will echo through cyberspace. It almost makes me think it’s not worth it to brag. Girls are heartless. Even your friends are going to go behind your back, snickering about your future husband’s poor taste in jewelry, your bad manicure, your over-sized knuckles, your hairy arm, and your impending stretch marks. Is the inevitable shit-talking really worth the 68 Facebook likes and eight congratulatory comments?
Of fucking course it is. Bitches will bitch, but at least you have a ring.
This column brought to you by the quarter carat engagement ring — yes QUARTER carat — in my feed today.