The Precious

I'm have a fake engagement ring.

It's huge. It's pink. It's sparkly and takes up half of my finger. If don't even think the stone is as upscale as a cubic zirconia - more like an accidentally well-shaped bubble of plastic that was left out in the heat. 

If it were a diamond, it would probably cost more than this city will make in bridge tolls this year, so some could say I'm setting myself up for perpetual disappointment. What man could afford such a ring, if hypothetically, one were to ever love me past the honeymoon phase? Certainly not the type I'm attracted to. Surely, no men boasting heavy Queens accent and two full sleeves of tattoos are working as Wall Street traders these days. But I wear it nonetheless. 

Oh, not in public. No, only at night. At home. Alone. In bed. 

I bought it years ago when I was working for a event producer and needed to scope out a competitor venue under the guise of a bride excited about her upcoming wedding. While the ruse lasted 5 minutes, the ring lived on. I couldn't part with the reassuring feeling of it gently grazing my knuckle. 

What is it about this ring - or me - that makes me want to be engaged? Because the idea of being married doesn't call to me at all. AT. ALL. At all. Just hearing the word "marriage" makes me want to flail my limbs to prove I'm not trapped.

So what's in that ring?

Is it the attention that I'd garner at work and at parties for at least 8 months? Is it the idea that someone loves me enough to show the world using my favorite symbol, jewelry?  

Or could it be that there's a 3 carat hole in my self-esteem reminding me I need the approval of a man to feel worthy?