The big fashion trend this fall is not the skinny jean, nor is it the sweater-dress, peek-toe pumps or military coats. The hot accessory for autumn, as I was informed this past weekend, is the engagement ring.
Ah, engagement rings. The world’s smallest set of handcuffs, some might say. Speaking from the perspective of one who has long accepted her inevitable spinsterhood, it boggles the mind as to why anyone still young enough to get carded at a bar would commit to spending the rest of their lives with a single, solitary specimen.
It began, as I believe Shakespeare intended all tragedies to, on instant messenger. I was accosted by a high school acquaintance, one with whom I thankfully have precious few conversations. Assuming that her sending me a message was a result of boredom, I benevolently decided to entertain Suzy’s valiant attempt at coherent banter (all names have been changed). After a few exchanges, it became evident that she was far stupider than I remembered her to be, and I far more cynical than she remembered me.
When I began to feel my IQ decreasing, I prepared to end the conversation with the conveniently placed Block button. It was just then that Suzy managed to fully capture my attention with a shocking piece of information.
xSuzyEmoHighschoolx: did u here abt Ashley?
BitterandContent: No, what?
xSuzyEmoHighschoolx: She got engaged.
BitterandContent: Well, damn.
Discounting my detestation for happy endings and ignoring my abhorrence for affection, this news left me with a bad taste in my mouth and a burning in my loins.
Normally after hearing of such scandal a Joan Crawford-calibre outburst would ensue, one liberally fuelled by hard liquour. This time however, I remained self-controlled and sober. The reason, you ask? As it happens, I had been hit with identical news not three days before.
Another girl with whom I had the displeasure of attending high school was planning on walking down the aisle. Here were two passably competent girls, willingly signing their freedom away. I would almost understand the notion if these were commissioned acts, organized on the Russian black market, but they were not. These girls were getting married for “love.”
There are multitudes of women who lament their singledom as they watch more attractive and less intelligent friends get married. Sayings such as “always the bridesmaid, never the bride” have worked their way into popular culture, so as to further stress the importance of having a partner with whom to shuffle off this mortal coil.
Sure, maybe these girls will marry young, die old and spend the time in between living out a Nicholas Sparks novel, but maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll begin to long for their days as singular nouns and look upon us spinsters with envy. We may be the ones in metallic seafoam as opposed to white lace, but bridesmaids don’t get in trouble for sleeping with two thirds of the groomsmen before/during/after the rehearsal dinner.
I could use this conclusion as a place to make some sort of radical social commentary on the institution of marriage, but for now I’m going to hit the snooze button on my biological clock and go have some promiscuous sex. Hopefully with someone’s fiance. Eat it, Ashley.
