foxinsnow's Diaryland Diary

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I Wore the Ring

I wore the ring.

For about two days, that is.

I was dating Danny, a really wealthy young British man. I thought he was the man of my dreams. He seemed liberal, he was devastatingly good-looking, he seemed to respect my feminist ideals, and we had great sex. Of course, I�m a bit ashamed to admit, the money and the prospect of someday living in the Ryerson family estate just outside Liverpool didn�t hurt either. We never discussed marriage, but we discussed children. I was so excited that I would be able to just concentrate on my writing and raising my�our�kids.

We never discussed engagement rings. I thought we didn�t have to.

The second Valentine�s Day we had been dating, I wore my sexiest red dress and we went to a swanky but cozy little bistro in the East Village. We were visiting his family friends and my cousins in New York. I ordered angel hair spinach pasta with pesto sauce�my favorite Italian dish besides my mother�s homemade lasagna. Danny also bought us a bottle of Merlot, my favorite. I was happy as a clam.

Until that awkward moment when Danny got down on one knee, shoved a huge diamond up my nose, and told me how much he loved me and asked me to marry him.

And I did want to marry him. But not like that.

�Danny,� I said, �I love you so much and of course I will marry you.� He beamed, his long brown hair shining and his angular nose widening slightly. �But,� I added meekly, �there�s one little thing.� This was amidst the applause of the other diners. I whispered in his ear, �I never wanted an engagement ring.�

His whole face changed. He was trying to look curious, but I could tell there was a ball of anger forming in his stomach. �Why not?� he whispered back.

I flushed. He was still on one knee�I wished he�d get up. �I just see it as a sign of being owned. I mean, why doesn�t the man wear the engagement ring, or why can�t we both? I just don�t like the idea. I think this runs in my family,� I added hastily, as though it were some kind of disease. �Why don�t you get me a diamond locket like my dad got my mom? She felt the same way when she got engaged.�

The expression on his face was now one of devastation. �I don�t understand. Don�t you love me?� he said. He was near tears. �You care more about your feminism than you do about me.�

�For Chrissake, Danny.� I took a big gulp of wine, finishing off the glass. �I said I�d marry you. It�s just a ring, for fuck�s sake.� Then I blushed because everyone had just heard me use the f word.

�Well, he sniffled, �if it�s just a ring, then why won�t you wear it? Won�t you be proud to be my fianc�e?�

�I am your fianc�e already, and I am proud. I just don�t like engagement rings.�

�Elizabeth,� he finally stood up and closed that damn box, �an engagement ring is not a symbol of ownership. It�s a symbol of love. I bought you this ring because I love you and worship you�and, I thought I diamond would be what you wanted��

There was a long pause. I poured myself some more wine and gulped down half of it. I was ready to order a shot of whiskey or something. �I don�t see it that way,� I told him. �I�m sorry, I just don�t. It�s like, everyone will know I�m unavailable and you�ll still be free game.�

Danny gasped. �What, you think I�d cheat on you?�

Another pause, more gulping. �Danny, it�s a symbol of inequality. To me.�

Danny�s face tightened. I�d never seen him look that way before. �I won�t marry you unless you wear that ring.�

�Danny! Jesus! Why do YOU care what I wear? What if I said I won�t marry you until you stop pushing this ring at me?�

He looked away. His eyes were red from crying. �Then we�d have a problem.� Then he looked at me. �Look, we can talk about this. Would you like a less extravagant ring? I think I can get you to see my point of view.� He was right; he�d been a debater, he usually could.

�Wait, are you gonna insist I take your last name, too?� He looked at me in disbelief.

But, in the end, I put on the ring, happily, and after a shot of whiskey, It was really stupid to lose your guy over something so�well, stupid. Most chicks were really proud of their engagement rings, and envious of other people�s. And as I had said myself, it was just a ring.

II.

The next day, I woke up with the ring on my finger. It glinted blindingly in the sunlight.

�Don�t you love me?� It had been so heartbreaking to see him that way, and yet� who did he think he was? It�s not like he had worked his ass off to buy me that ring, ever�all his wealth came from his father�s million-dollar business. I had fucking quit smoking because it pained him so to see me smoke since his dad, whom I�d never met, had died of throat cancer. I had thought that was a big sacrifice. And I couldn�t help but think over his so-called enthusiasm for my feminism. First of all, he�d been an art major at Brown University�of course he had to talk the talk of a sensitive guy. And then, my adamant typical feminist pro-choice stance: no guy is gonna turn down a girl who would get an abortion, unless he�s Christian, and Danny was raised Hindu (his parents had been hippies-- evidently, motivated hippies-- he wasn�t South Asian.) And then there was his encouraging attitude towards the fact that I was a rape crisis counselor. Who wouldn�t encourage such altruism? And the more I thought about that, it was usually a girl or my friend from Chicago Saif (who was a hardworking South Asian, Muslim), who had been a suicide hotline counselor, that I turned to to get �therapy� for some of the more disturbing aspects of the job. Danny often got sick of hearing about it.

I started to realize that a lot of guys seemed turned on by my feminism because they found it refreshing that a girl could be as much of a feminist as I was and still wear makeup, sexy clothes, and �fuck me� pumps, such as I had worn that fateful diamond-studded Valentine�s day.

I tried to cast aside my doubts, though. After all, Danny was lying next to me. Asshole. And it was fun�for a few hours�to play the part of the blushing just-engaged-diamond-weighted girl. Until I had dinner with my cousin Therese�Danny back at the hotel room-- and I started bawling over our take-out pad thai while her adopted Chinese daughter watched in horror. (No husband was present, because Therese doesn�t have one.)

�Mommy, why isn�t Elizabeth happy?�

�I don�t know, Mimi,� Therese said. �Elizabeth, what�s wrong?� she asked in deadpan but genuine concern

�He�s making me wear this ring,� I bawled.

�What do you mean, sweetie.�It was a command, not a question. I love Therese.

�He�I didn�t want to wear it, because of some feminist stuff that I totally believe in, and he�he didn�t understand,� Mimi handed me some Kleenex, without being asked to, and I blew my nose. �I thought he understood that I would never wear some stupid engagement ring.�

Therese watched me cry for a minute.

�No, that�s ridiculous,�she finally said, �he shouldn�t expect you to wear something you don�t want to. And the issue isn�t the ring, or even feminism, but he�s trying to control you and that�s wrong. In fact, I always thought he was almost trying to use his money and family prestige to bribe you into loving him.�

I took off the awful ring and stared wide-eyed back at her, my sobbing cut off. �Yeah!� I said. �And you know, he�s always doing that, he�he got all bent out of shape when I wouldn�t let him buy me a car for my birthday one year, but it wasn�t as mean as this. I thought all that stuff just meant he really loved me, but it�s like�smothering.�

Therese cut to the chase. �You think he�s being mean to you?�

�Yeah!�

�You can�t marry him if he�s mean,� little Mimi piped up. Therese stroked her head and said, �That�s right sweetie.�

III

So, I finished my pad thai, took the train from Brooklyn back to Manhattan, walked to the Waldorf (I was wearing combat boots that day, not fuck-me pumps) and marched up to my suite, well, rode the elevator, but, you know what I mean. �Danny,� I stormed as I found him lying in his boxers reading Maxim, (hey, I read Cosmo), �I can�t marry you. Not because of the ring, but because you�re mean and controlling.� I threw the ring at him, packed my things amidst his protests, and spent the night at a friend�s apartment. I was furious. I haven�t talked to him since. He�s tried to call, and sent dozens of e-cards. He�s even sent roses to my parents� home outside Chicago�multiple times (I got a job teaching in Seattle, unbeknownst to him, shortly after I got back from New York).

Of course, I look like the bitch. I guess I would rather be a bitch than marry the wrong guy. And the wrong guy is a guy who expects me to wear an engagement ring and live vicariously through him while he buys me things. You know, I�ve only dated one real feminist in my life (not counting a brief lesbian affair I had)�my high school sweetheart Aaron. And he was a real feminist because not only did he not just smile and nod and rail the party line when I talked about abortion and rape, he was a humanist who treated me like an actual person instead of just his girlfriend. He respected my feelings because they were mine, not because he was trying to be a nice boyfriend. Conversely, a lot of guys have treated me like shit in the name of having open discourse, too. In the name of being �true to themselves.� I mean, they�ve gone on and on about the girl they�ve been in love with since they were thirteen or whatever. That�s just fucking bad manners, you know? It�s like, if you have to try that hard to be a feminist, you�re not one, boy, even if you listen to Sleater-Kinney. Just have sex with most men if you want to do a study on how quickly their so-called feminism can fly right out the window along with an empty Guinness bottle.

I don�t know. It�s like, if you want an engagement ring (and I respect that most chicks do), wear one. Insist on one. If you�re pro-life, don�t get an abortion. Make the bastard marry you. No, I�m not telling anyone what to do here. I�m just telling my own simple love story of how a love that seemed perfect wasn�t. And in my case, it took a stupid ring to make me realize that.

12:44 a.m. - 2004-01-03

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