(Don't) Put A Ring On It

On declining to sprint down the aisle.

By Katie Cotugno

Out at a bar over the weekend, as I was waiting for my boyfriend to come back with the next round of beers, his lifelong best friend took me aside. "I just want you to know," he said, leaning over the table conspiratorially, "that if you ever decide it's time to give Tom an ultimatum, I'll totally have your back."

I stared at him. I blinked. "If it's time to give Tom what?" I managed after a moment. The music was loud in there. I thought I might have misheard.

"You know, an ultimatum. Like if you really want to get engaged — "

"No, I know what it is." I paused, allowing myself a moment to fully appreciate what was happening here. This particular friend was hardly the first person to suggest that Tom might benefit from a friendly (or not) nudge toward matrimony, and I'd gotten reasonably adept at deflecting inquiries into our connubial timeline with replies including but certainly not limited to "I don't know; when are you getting married?" and "Not until my symptoms clear up." Still, there's something singularly alarming about an underemployed twenty-four-year-old dude-bro indicating he might like to help you bully his best friend down the aisle. "That's... nice of you," I said finally. "Thanks."

Luckily, Tom returned with the beers. I may have shotgunned mine with more enthusiasm than was quite ladylike.

To be fair: I get why people are curious. Tom and I are twenty-four, and we've been together since the summer before our senior year of high school. For those of you playing along at home, that's over seven and a half uninterrupted years of dating (well, once we broke up for twelve hours, but I had to reconsider when I realized I couldn't figure out how to make the Playstation play DVDs). That's a long time. Among our friends, we are circus freaks, zoo animals, the eighth season of a reliable Wednesday-night police procedural. I ran into an acquaintance from high school in New York City not that long ago, and literally the first thing out of her mouth was, "Are you engaged?" (Possible answers: "Yes, to a really lovely woman." "No, but I am knocked up.") It makes sense that people feel they have a stake in the next chapter of the story. We've been reading out loud for close to a decade.

But here's the sticky thing — I'm not looking to get married anytime soon.

I know, right? What a maverick I am.

When you say something like I don't want to get married for awhile, people automatically assume one of two things: either A) you're lying to cover up your abject humiliation at the fact that he hasn't asked yet, or B) you're some kind of art-school snot who thinks she's better than the system and everyone who's a slave to it. And while I am, in fact, an art-school snot who thinks she's better than everyone else, for once this is actually not about my psychological complexes or my paralyzing fear of public ridicule.

Do I love my boyfriend? Absolutely. Do I eventually want to marry him and punch out a couple of adorable towheaded children named hipster-y things like "Mavis" and "Claude"? You bet. Do I eye Real Simple Weddings with more-than-passing interest when I see it on the rack at Barnes & Noble?

I mean, that's embarrassing, but yes. Yes I do.

But you know what? I am really young. I have no stable career to speak of. I spend my weeknights eating hummus straight from the tub and watching Hoarders on A&E. My dad still pays for my health insurance. I have a lot of life-learning ahead of me, and when I do get married I want to be confident I've done the work to become the kind of grown-up partner I feel like Tom — or any good husband — deserves. So I just... think we should wait.

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