I Want to Get Married

It’s a dimly lit place, yet her gold band and crystal clear princess cut diamond sparkles and glistens. My eyes are glued to her wedding ring. As it sits perched on her pink gel manicured finger, I imagine her love story in my head.

They were college sweethearts who fell in love while preparing a presentation one night, tackling the bulk of what was supposed to be split with three more people. They became one, two months after graduating and then welcomed a little boy the following year, Matthew.

Because motherhood ended up being more than she anticipated, she quit her 9-5 at the ad agency and became a full time mom. He, on the other hand, works nearly 80 hours a week and provides a lavish life for his family.

They argue about him constantly missing dinner and not being there for Matthew. He shrugs her off; she shops to numb the pain.

Marriage is always on my mind. I think about it when I wake up, when I watch TV, listen to music, when I have downtime, whenever my mind wonders, and right before I fall asleep. I think about what it feels like to have a life partner. I wonder what love is like from a man who has fully committed himself to me. What will our day-to-day life consist of? What will we argue about? Will he understand that my introverted personality needs some alone time to recharge?

I’m constantly staring at women’s wedding rings and wishing I too could wear a symbol that told the world I am committed to someone for life. But whenever I look down at my left hand, my stomach drops. No ring. That finger has been naked and cold for as long as I’ve been alive…

I wonder if it will remain that way until I die.

I dread running into people from my past because I know they’re going to say those three words that form the one question I hate being asked, “Are you married?”

My response is loud and clear in my head, and it makes me want to get right up in their face and whisper, “Mind your own f^&kin’ business.” But I can’t do that. It’s not their fault. They have no idea they’re prying into my biggest insecurity. They have no idea that I equate being asked that question to being slapped in the face. It burns, it stings, and it hurts.

My mom constantly reassures me, “It’s better to start a marriage later in life, rather than earlier, because both people know themselves and know what they want in a partner.” I believe her but I can’t help but feel like I made a mistake somewhere along the line. Was I paying too much attention to someone, when I shouldn’t have? Did I pass up on a date that could have led to exactly what and who I currently desire?

I recently attended a bridal shower where everyone shed a few tears at the soon-to-be bride’s thank you speech. But my tears fell because I sat there thinking I’d probably never experience my own bridal shower.

Why am I so obsessed with this? Why does it affect me in such a way? Are other single women of the same age experiencing this?

My greatest fear is that I’ll be in my late 30s or 40s just finding love, or still alone watching other people experience it.

Being single sometimes feels like I have LOSER stamped across my forehead, causing everyone to look at me and ask, “Why is she single?” or comment, “She’s never in a relationship.”

I no longer want to wear that single friend label. I don’t want to receive wedding invitations without an option for a plus one. I don’t want to attend events with my parents because I don’t have a family of my own to bring.

I know there is a lesson in everything. There has to be a reason as to why I haven’t met that special person yet. But I have no idea what the lesson is, that I should be learning in my loneliness.

All I know is that it is painful.

“Excuse me,” she says and I rapidly blink myself back into reality.

“You have a beautiful ring,” I say, stepping out of her way.

“Thank you,” she says while moving toward the cash register to pay for the clothes she’s holding.

With a slight possibility that her marriage could maybe end in divorce, my obsession with wanting to have a ring on my finger and a husband still remains etched at the forefront of my head. I exhale slowly and walk out of the overpriced boutique.

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