On Being A Woman Of Marriageable Age

I hear that you are getting married soon but I am yet. And I cannot help but simmer and stew in my inferiority like tea leaves over-brewed. Am I over-brewed tea or am I an old canister of tea leaves sitting in the back of a pantry, forgotten and expiring? Am I approaching my use-by-date? Is that my fate?

Why are we always chasing diamonds when we are worth more than pieces of carbon? There are days where I chase the ring until it becomes a chain that binds me. And I cannot help but be rooted like an overgrown garden. Abandoned. Stuck. Neglected with weeds. Because I am anything but a diamond. I am a crushed-up pixie dust daydreaming adventurer looking for the second star in the morning sky. Hopelessly dreaming for true love’s kiss and broken curses. However, I can hear the ticking of the clock and I’m unsure where time is leaking from, but I feel the pressure of this diseased organ in my abdomen.

So, tell me again that you are getting married. Remind me of my marriageable age as though we are setting reminders on the calendar of my recommended use-by date. Best before December 2024. Keep refrigerated after opening. Do not use if seal is broken.

But women are not perishable food. We do not spoil, decay, or become unsafe to consume if not kept refrigerated. We are not clipped flowers sitting in a vase, with our petals withering by the day. We are not unwrapped candy no one wants to consume. Stop comparing women to depreciating inanimate objects. I know that I am worth more than my marital status or a gemstone on a ring. Try to weigh me on a scale and you will see that my value is immeasurable. This is as much of a reminder to others as it is to myself.