In a room full of rings.

On Tuesday I had my first classroom class of graduate school and I think I spent more time concentrating on the people in the room, than the class itself. I initially walked into the room and sat in the first available seat, which happened to be next to a guy who I believe is of Indian descent (no presumptions). He was talking at a guy two seats away from him who was wearing very large headphones around his neck. He did not seem amused by the first guy’s attempts at conversation. I immediately regretted my choice of seats as Indian guy was very loud, had some disturbing dandruff and took up a lot of the table. Good news though. The professor decided to rearrange the room and I swooped in on a seat in the back in a group of girls. What did I find there? Engagement rings.

As a mid-twenties female, it is my obligation to notice any engagement ring within 20 feet of me at any time. My species is required to comment and “ooh and ah” over every engagement ring, regardless of size or even if we know the person. Tuesday I found myself between two rings. It was like being Gollum and walking into Jared’s (The Galleria of Jewelry). I can’t exactly describe the feeling I had when I looked to my left, DIAMOND, and the turned to the right and DIAMOND. The next day at worked just topped the whole thing off when my coworker was looking at engagement rings and talking about engagements to another coworker and I responded “UGH”. Their response? “What’s wrong with you?”

Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with me.

Do I want to get married? Absolutely. Do I look at my ring finger on my left hand and upon finding it empty feel a horrible morose feeling overcome me? Not in the slightest. It’s jewelry. I can barely remember to put in earrings every few months to keep the holes open. The most jewelry you’re likely to find on me on any given day is a rubber band on my wrist. And that’s because I couldn’t find anywhere better to put it. I think if I ever get engaged I’d be way happier that some guy thought I was awesome enough to spend the rest of his life with, rather than focus on the size or style of the metastable allotrope of carbon he just slid onto my finger. The diamond doesn’t make the marriage, the people do.

I did at one time fantasize about what I would like in an engagement ring but now I realize it’s not as much about the object as it is about the sentiment. If you have an engagement ring that means that here is a guy who has decided he wants to spend the next sixty to seventy years with you. Just you. I would rather hear a guy say that to me than to have him pick out the biggest freakin diamond the world has ever seen. It wouldn’t even have to be a real diamond. I can’t tell the difference. But if he was able to say “Meredith, you are the most amazing creature the world has ever seen. You are funnier than Tina Fey and more beautiful than every Victoria’s Secret model combined with Kate Upton. You have a voice sweeter than Norah Jones and eyes like the Aegean Sea. Nothing would make me happier than to spend the next seventy years slowly becoming senile and cantankerous with you. Will you marry me?” I would melt. He could slip a quarter machine mood ring on my finger at that point and I wouldn’t give a damn.

I would much rather have someone love me that much than a shiny piece of carbon to show off to people I don’t know.