The Marriage Fever

The Suitor, Francesco Beda

At my first job in Canada, I met a lovely Mongolian girl a few years older than me. Cute, tall, slim, educated, smart and single. And also terrified that she was turning 30 and there was no suitor in sight.

We were working in a cashmere store, so most of our customers were high-income professionals. Every now and then, we would have handsome and fairly young men come in to buy gifts for their wives or girlfriends. They would spend 400-500$ without blinking on a pretty sweater or a cozy wrap for the special ladies in their life, with that little private smile on their faces. You could tell they were imagining the surprise and delighted “ooh’s” and “aah’s” of the women about to receive the fluffy bundles of luxury.

My coworker was flirting discreetly with all of them. With each attractive man, you could tell she was hoping that the gift was for a mother, sister, cousin – anything but a wife  or girlfriend. But that was hardly ever the case; the hunky high-earners were usually taken. One day, after a particularly attractive male customer left the store with a 700$ cape for his fiancee, she turned to me and burst out, almost yelling: “You know, I wish I could understand! How do these men pick? What is inside these women that makes such men propose to them?!”

I already knew she was feeling frustrated, but the bluntness of her phrasing, “what is inside these women”, only made me shrug in sympathy. It was as though she was picturing a divine assembly line where some women simply got better parts than others, both inside and out, and felt like she had been shortchanged somehow. She knew her looks were decent, so she was wondering if there was something inside these wives and fiancees, some sort of hidden trigger that made engagement rings shoot out of Tiffany boxes.

I have seen many such cases of anxiety. It’s not acceptable for a woman to talk about these feelings openly in a modern society, because it makes her look desperate and pathetic. Luckily, I come from a more traditional society which, for all the evils of its anti-feminism, does generate juicier gossip.

The Suitor, W.D. Sadler

I was entering my teenage years when my first cousin was in her early 20′s, with a Law degree in her hand but no ring on her finger. She was a cute little thing, barely five feet tall, with a loud mouth and an energetic personality. A social butterfly, she never had a problem hooking up with eligible young men; the problem was that none of them would pop the question. Every holiday, she would invite one of them to spend a few days at her family’s country house, hoping that the festive times would end in an official commitment.

The family would start preparing a few days in advance, as though they were expecting  a royal visit. They would turn the house upside down, vacuuming, polishing, scrubbing and ironing, because God forbid Prince Charming should see a speck of dust! They were old-school people who genuinely thought that a fingerprint on a glass might put off a man who was almost on bent knee. If it were that easy, Lysol would be more expensive than Chanel. At one point, I saw my cousin scrubbing with soap a corner of the attic where they didn’t even have a light, and wondered if I, too, would go insane like that when I entered my marriage years (and I did, but it took other forms).

And then there was the food! It was all supposed to be a lavish display of my cousin’s domestic skills, to reassure the fortunate aspirant that he would be well-fed once he married her. She and her mother would rise at the crack of dawn and proceed to baking and roasting as if they were preparing for the actual wedding. The mixer was buzzing incessantly, bags of supplies were being crammed on tables and counter tops and steaming trays and pots were being carried into the larder. On top of that, mother and daughter were at each other’s throats. My aunt and uncle were notorious cheapskates, and the matriarch counted every egg, every drop of vanilla essence and every cup of sugar, while screaming at my cousin: “It’s too much! Too much! Your father doesn’t shit money!” The old shrew would harp at it until my exasperated cousin would run away to our grandmother and have  a crying fit in her comforting arms, shaking her dark curls and cursing the day she was born. I was always hot on her heels like a nosy war reporter. Grandma would call my aunt and yell at her: “Leave the child alone!”, and then I would follow my cousin back to her house to observe some more scrubbing, chopping, mixing and screaming.

The shouting matches would last exactly until the lights of the boyfriend’s car would flicker at the gate. My cousin would dry her tears and reapply her lipstick, my aunt would check her hairdo and my uncle would take his solemn pose. Because he’s always been like that, solemn. By the time Prince Charming showed up at the door with the cheap flower bouquet and the even cheaper box of chocolates, the house was gleaming, the table was full of appetizing platters and the family was a picture of tenderness and harmony. As for me, I was happy that I could finally eat from the delicious cakes and hopeful that the boyfriend might leak a cigarette or two my way.

Despite such superhuman feats of domestic prowess, the boyfriends would easily smell the dysfunction and pretense, and would vanish soon after the family holiday. This happened several times over until, at the ripe age of 27, my cousin decided that, no matter what, she couldn’t end up a spinster, and cornered the last “special guest” to come to the family reunion into proposing. I wasn’t there, but my father told me that it was pretty much “yay or nay?”, at the dinner table, in front of the whole family. The poor schmuck agreed to marry her, instead of digging a hole in the ground and burrowing his way to China, like a smart man. She didn’t love him and she wasn’t even attracted to him. She just really, really wanted to be married. They had a beautiful wedding and a terrible marriage that ended with her cheating and ripping him off.

The Suitor, Leopold Schmutzler

When I was in college, a rich family friend married off his daughter. She was a sweet, delicate girl, but rather plain-looking and socially awkward. The groom was dashing and brilliant, but nowhere near as wealthy as her father. Although he was, without a doubt,  sincerely in love with her, he was somewhat despised by her family for not bringing more cash into the marriage. Even so, their desire to see her married trumped any material expectations. At the wedding, right in church, her father whispered to a select few: “At this point, I don’t even care if she gets a divorce. At least, she will have been married.” My jaw dropped at the cynicism of his words, although I should have known better. Luckily, the two are still together, and quite happy, from what I hear.

When I got engaged the last time, to a Mexican man, my father was so happy that he threw a party. He started dreaming of barbecues with his son-in-law, studying the history of Mexico (just in case Miguel Hidalgo’s name might pop up at the wedding reception) and ordering grandchildren like they were take-out. He finally admitted that the whole family had been feeling sorry for me that I was over 25 and not married. When my engagement broke, he quickly “forgot” everything he said, and I didn’t bring it up again either.

The Engagement Ring, J.S. Fox

Ahh, too many stories and too little time! These colorful, dramatic manifestations of marriage fever are probably more common in countries that are a bit behind the times. I’ll be the first to admit that Romania is one such country; not shockingly backwards, but it is a bit. However, when I look at the billion-dollar wedding industry in North America, at the myriad of bridal-themed shows and at the representations of single women in the media, I have to wonder whether the difference lies mostly in how open we are with our feelings on this topic.

I want to get married very, very much. There, I said it. I am 28 and a half, I have dated, I have also been single for long periods, I know what I’m looking for… I’m ready. And I have been for a while. That being said, I am also very afraid of making a bad choice. I have never truly wanted to marry a particular man. Sadly and foolishly, I have said “yes” three times, when what I meant was just “maybe”, and I have put myself through a lot of pain. Deep down, I knew each time that it wouldn’t work out, and that is why I never got too excited about planning the weddings either. Looking back on it, all I feel is relief, relief that I didn’t walk down the aisle with a lesser love than I needed.

The last man I dated was very eager to settle down. He thought he was in love with me, when, in fact, I simply happened to come his way. At one point, I playfully engaged in a description of my ideal wedding. I think he thought I was including him in the picture, but what I was seeing in my imagination was just a walking tuxedo with no head. Things fell apart; there came the sadness, and then, again, the relief.

Temptations are not always easy to fight. I’m not getting any younger; a dual income would sure make my life easier; my parents would be happy; I wouldn’t have to sleep alone anymore; something exciting would finally happen in my life; I would get to decorate my dream home. All good things. Except that, if I don’t have the right man by my side, all these good things would act as spotlights, there only  to make my unhappiness shine brighter.

I haven’t met him yet; of that I am certain. I may never meet him. I may wake up one day alone and well past my sell-by date, picking out cats at the animal shelter and ordering needlepoint patterns off of Ebay. But one thing I know for sure: I will never regret not settling for Mr. Right Now instead of Mr. Right. I have too much respect for marriage to actually do it, unless I am madly, hopelessly, undeniably in love.

The Engagement Ring, Alfred Thompson Bricher