Love Stories: Why I'm Secretly Sad for Women Who Get Engaged in Their Twenties

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Love Stories: Why I'm Secretly Sad for Women Who Get Engaged in Their Twenties
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'Every time a twenty-something I know returns from a holiday with a certain glow and that definitive diamond on her left ring finger, part of me aches for her.'

You may not think me the blissful newlywed when I say this, but every time a twenty-something I know returns from a holiday with a certain glow and that definitive diamond on her left ring finger, part of me aches for her. But you’re only twenty-five, I think, as I offer my best wishes. Perhaps I have this gut reaction because, my southern roots notwithstanding, I am a New Yorker, and New Yorkers don’t get married when they’re twenty-five. Or maybe I'm being close-minded.

Similarly, my fairy tale is not a linear one. And the reason I balk, of course, has more to do with me than whatever young woman offers her hand in exchange for a shriek of approval. I was engaged at the age of twenty-four. And I recently married at the age of thirty-three. So I know the difference a little time can make.

At twenty-four, I had no career to speak of, only a journal I scribbled in and a few bylines in the Home & Garden section of the local paper. My most consistent paycheck came from my fiancé’s parents, along with a few suggestions on how we should live our lives. We had a dog and a house not far from the beach, a picket fence smothered in jasmine. The week before he proposed—in Florence, at a table overlooking the Arno—I told him I was not ready.

As it turned out, we were going to Florence so he could propose to me. And I said yes when I should have said no, but somehow none of it felt like my choice. Suddenly I had a fiancé, a dress, and a date; all of the things I was supposed to want. But I was hardly a hopeful bride-to-be.’**s: “She would be a purchaser of Audubon prints and scented douches, a hoarder of secret sexual grievances, a wife.

Instead of chasing my dream of becoming a writer, I was attending night classes to become a real estate agent. My recurring nightmare at the time involved me, vacuuming furiously in a tailored suit, red lipstick, and well-coiffed hair, à la

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