All my friends expressed surprise.
“Don’t you want some spectacular emerald in a halo of aquamarine, or a vintage ruby-crested signet flanked by your initials, or, better yet, a raw black onyx crystal affixed to a band made out of melted silver from the embellishment on a frame that once held a Vermeer painting?”
Nope!
I wanted a plain old diamond. Cushion cut on yellow gold. Basic as pumpkin spice.
Let’s discuss this:
Throughout my 20s and early 30s, I frequented barre classes. They were invaluable during my recovery from Guillain-Barré Syndrome and they suited my proclivities as someone who favors lying down while they exercise.
But I always felt like such an outsider coming in. No matter which class I took, it seemed like every barre enthusiast shared the same tanned white slim toned body, blonde high ponytail, matching legging set, and…a big old diamond ROCK of an engagement ring.
While being tortured by oblique crunches and deep squats (down an inch, up an inch), I would observe the left ring fingers of everyone else in class: Taken. Chosen. Picked.
It was like an adult version of dodgeball, where you could see the popularity and desirability of your peers play out, right before your eyes. “Oh, you’re not picked yet?” I could hear my fellow oblique-crunchers taunting me. “Hm, must because you’re [insert list of Mari’s flaws here].”
I would watch my barre classmates with creepy attentiveness, trying to unlock the code they must have cracked in order to have somebody CHOOSE them, above everyone else on planet earth, including Penelope Cruz.
I would even entertain such intrusive thoughts as, “I have better form than her, so why is she engaged and I’m single?” as though every woman-loving human is clamoring for a gal who keeps her hips square during leg raises.
I would also spend time judging their regular rock engagement rings. “How lame-o,” I thought, “I want something so much more unique and special, which my unique and special fiancé will obviously know, and then some day I will come back to barre class with my technicolor dream gem and they’ll be sorry for…uh, whatever they did.”
Can you guess why I used to think this way?
DING DING DING!
YES, it’s because I was JEALOUS!
But I actually wasn’t jealous of their big old rocks, or their matching legging sets, or their tiny toned triceps, or their ability to look like they belonged in a barre class, rather than looking like a wolf among poodles.
I was jealous that they allowed themselves to be basic.
What I mean by that is this: