ring ring
In the game of courtship, prizes appear early on in the race. A runner’s high is but a sneeze compared to the euphoria of new romantic conquest. For women, it’s a giggling, bubbly, sparkling whirlwind of being picked-up at your apartment and escorted to the local hot place. I made that up, “hot place.” I like it.
Prizes are awarded. The leanest, healthiest, most symmetrical females get the bouquet of flowers, the sash of a new dress and shining metals. I'm not not even talking gold…I'm talking about the bling bling platinum. They’re smattered with compliments and glances both loving and pervy. And in turn, the male competitors get what else, the choicest females on their arms. Women become the prize. You work hard, you get your Blackberry expensed, you show a little chutzpah and you have blondie with the good skin and the 23” waist, getting chatted up by the bouncer who wishes he was you.
Things go well. Many dates are had. After a while, women are passing the display cases at Tiffany’s, their eyes caught by the dancing wink of a princess-cut solitaire and deep down inside, the little girl in them gasps and squeals. They observe their beaus with caution. Maybe they bring it up. Maybe they let it go. Maybe love happens and the beau sneaks back to the fabled store and picks out a two-month’s-salary-stunner. Two month’s salary. I am stuck on this standard. This yardstick. This rule of thumb. Two month’s salary for a shiny rock on a shiny wire. Wha?
They decide on a nice place for a special dinner. He plays it cool to downplay the potential surprise. Is she onto him? Does she have her suspicions? Maybe. They arrive and rose petals are covering the table by way of a bribed maitre d’. She’s giddy. Maybe she’s starting to suspect. They sip champagne and talk about work and their love. At the end of the meal over cappuccinos and flourless chocolate cake, he gets down on one knee next to the table and her eyes are watering up. He brings out the velvet box and opens it. The tears are spurting forth. He asks her to marry him and she’s bawling. She’s done. Everything she’s worked for up to this point has paid off. Maybe she’s crying out of relief. Maybe she’s honored that he’s giving up the prospect of new ass. I think she’s crying because this is the last time he will EVER spend two month’s salary on any one gift just for her.
If that’s how you want to play, let’s play. If a woman gets a fancy ring for dating and staying faithful while the sex is good and the love handles are absent, she should get TWO fancy rings after ten years of worth of marriage and childbirth and midnight feedings and sore throats and picked-up dry cleaning and home cooked meals and relatives who trashed the guest room and not so exciting sex and the tepid attempt at rekindling it and compromised schedules and missed nights out with the girls and loving a man who had a bad day for weeks on end. What does she get after twenty years? Not a pear-shaped diamond but pear-shaped body. Bags but not Louis Vuitton, the ones under her eyes. Kids who talk back and make him stressed out as if work wasn’t cutting it at that. This is what’s fundamentally wrong with the prizes we get when we’re young and taut. Which woman wants to work towards an anniversary dinner at Marie Callenders? Sure, it’s the thought that counts… but when you’re young and in love and you’ve just been proposed to, you can’t flash a thought in front of your co-workers. Your girlfriends won’t gush and scream when they see the thought he picked out. Tiffany’s stays in business for a reason. It’s all about the engagement rings, not the wedding bands or the watches. But in life, the most difficult race is the marathon, not the jockeying for position. It’s gritty and beautiful. It’s filled with Play-doh and first Christmases. It’s ever-changing, morphing from one dull week after another into a college graduation and a first job and then back again to dull. It is this endurance for the cross country adventure that merits the medals… bronze, silver, gold, platinum. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but they're just pebbles to a woman who has won the race even though she may deserve them more.
Prizes are awarded. The leanest, healthiest, most symmetrical females get the bouquet of flowers, the sash of a new dress and shining metals. I'm not not even talking gold…I'm talking about the bling bling platinum. They’re smattered with compliments and glances both loving and pervy. And in turn, the male competitors get what else, the choicest females on their arms. Women become the prize. You work hard, you get your Blackberry expensed, you show a little chutzpah and you have blondie with the good skin and the 23” waist, getting chatted up by the bouncer who wishes he was you.
Things go well. Many dates are had. After a while, women are passing the display cases at Tiffany’s, their eyes caught by the dancing wink of a princess-cut solitaire and deep down inside, the little girl in them gasps and squeals. They observe their beaus with caution. Maybe they bring it up. Maybe they let it go. Maybe love happens and the beau sneaks back to the fabled store and picks out a two-month’s-salary-stunner. Two month’s salary. I am stuck on this standard. This yardstick. This rule of thumb. Two month’s salary for a shiny rock on a shiny wire. Wha?
They decide on a nice place for a special dinner. He plays it cool to downplay the potential surprise. Is she onto him? Does she have her suspicions? Maybe. They arrive and rose petals are covering the table by way of a bribed maitre d’. She’s giddy. Maybe she’s starting to suspect. They sip champagne and talk about work and their love. At the end of the meal over cappuccinos and flourless chocolate cake, he gets down on one knee next to the table and her eyes are watering up. He brings out the velvet box and opens it. The tears are spurting forth. He asks her to marry him and she’s bawling. She’s done. Everything she’s worked for up to this point has paid off. Maybe she’s crying out of relief. Maybe she’s honored that he’s giving up the prospect of new ass. I think she’s crying because this is the last time he will EVER spend two month’s salary on any one gift just for her.
If that’s how you want to play, let’s play. If a woman gets a fancy ring for dating and staying faithful while the sex is good and the love handles are absent, she should get TWO fancy rings after ten years of worth of marriage and childbirth and midnight feedings and sore throats and picked-up dry cleaning and home cooked meals and relatives who trashed the guest room and not so exciting sex and the tepid attempt at rekindling it and compromised schedules and missed nights out with the girls and loving a man who had a bad day for weeks on end. What does she get after twenty years? Not a pear-shaped diamond but pear-shaped body. Bags but not Louis Vuitton, the ones under her eyes. Kids who talk back and make him stressed out as if work wasn’t cutting it at that. This is what’s fundamentally wrong with the prizes we get when we’re young and taut. Which woman wants to work towards an anniversary dinner at Marie Callenders? Sure, it’s the thought that counts… but when you’re young and in love and you’ve just been proposed to, you can’t flash a thought in front of your co-workers. Your girlfriends won’t gush and scream when they see the thought he picked out. Tiffany’s stays in business for a reason. It’s all about the engagement rings, not the wedding bands or the watches. But in life, the most difficult race is the marathon, not the jockeying for position. It’s gritty and beautiful. It’s filled with Play-doh and first Christmases. It’s ever-changing, morphing from one dull week after another into a college graduation and a first job and then back again to dull. It is this endurance for the cross country adventure that merits the medals… bronze, silver, gold, platinum. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but they're just pebbles to a woman who has won the race even though she may deserve them more.
posted by Katie at 7:23 PM
3 Comments:
that was pretty. like a tiffany ring. mm, do you still write poems? I heard a reading you did at rickmond's july4 party a long time ago. that was awesome. I think it was 'american pie' or something similar.
oh man, i don't even know what i did with that poem! i haven't felt inspired to write poetry in a long time and i miss it. maybe i'll try it again and post some here. i'm glad you enjoyed the post. bling bling.
I wonder how many people realize that diamonds are as expensive as they are thanks to DeBeers marketing and their stranglehold on the supply of diamonds. Diamond engagement rings and that wonderful line ("diamonds are forever") didn't appear until the 1930s when the Depression was dropping their prices. Enter DeBeers who mopped up all the excess supply to keep prices artificially high and to keep people from selling them on a secondary market!
Maybe that's why the whole proposal thing is so hyped up by the girlfriends of the newly engaged.
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