I don’t particularly want to get married. I do, however, desperately want to be proposed to.

These are two completely different desires.

I don’t know if I believe in marriage. I definitely don’t believe in forever. I’ve been with my partner for eight years, which is already longer than I would ever agree to a phone contract.

I’m not entirely convinced by monogamy. Sometimes I’m not even entirely convinced by my partner.

And yet I would very much like this man to get down on one knee. Ideally on a rooftop in Morocco. At sunset. With a ring he has selected entirely by himself. That also happens to be the correct ring.

My fantasy engagement ring is the Tiffany Soleste cushion-cut yellow diamond halo ring. I once went into Tiffany and asked how much it cost out of sheer curiosity.

This is a man who will not buy anything full price. It would require him to experience a fundamental shift in his relationship with money. Possibly also insolvency.

But that’s part of it.

I don’t want to choose it together.

I don’t want him to ask what kind of ring I want.

I want him to somehow know.

He says I’m difficult. I think that’s very negative.

I want to be surprised. Just specifically with the thing I want to be surprised with.

Conversely, I don’t particularly want the bit that comes afterwards.

I can’t be arsed to plan a wedding. Why are all weddings the same?

White dress. Flowers. Bridesmaids. Speeches. First dance. Cake.

I don’t even know if I want to wear white. I’m not a virgin and it’s not a particularly flattering colour on me.

Obviously I could wear something else.

But then we’re getting distracted by the dress when the more fundamental question is: do I even want to be a bride?

No. Not really.

I am far too socially anxious to enjoy being the centre of attention for an entire day. I’d spend the ceremony wondering whether I had 29 chins in the professional photographs and the reception monitoring whether everyone was having enough fun, my stomach churning with guilt that people had paid for an overpriced KLM flight to witness my nuptials.

And I absolutely cannot be fucked with the logistics.

“We can’t do the 17th but we can do the 19th.”

Great. Don’t come.

“Willem’s new girlfriend is gluten intolerant.”

I’m sure she’s lovely. Why am I paying £140 to feed her?

It’s supposed to be my special day and somehow I’ve acquired an unpaid job in events management.

I’d rather elope to Vegas. Get married by an Elvis impersonator. Spend the wedding budget on slot machines, vapes, booze, shows and whatever other debauchery people do in Sin City.

This fantasy becomes considerably less sexy when I remember we have a two-year-old.

I can already hear the ceremony:

Elvis clears his throat.

“Do you take this man — ”

TOOT TOOT DRIVER
I’M A TOOT TOOT DRIVER
FIRE ENGINE

Perhaps Vegas needs further consideration.

The proposal, though. The proposal survives.

Which is awkward because I’m a feminist and the whole thing is pretty suspicious.

Women have spent a long time being taught that being chosen by a man is one of the most important things that can happen to us. We have been sold books like The Rules and Why Men Love Bitches, entire instruction manuals for behaving correctly enough that a man voluntarily agrees to stop trying to fuck everybody else.

Don’t be too keen.

Don’t text first.

Be unavailable.

Make him chase you.

At the same time, men have been fed the opposite story.

Don’t settle down.

Sow your wild oats.

Your wife is the old ball and chain.

We have constructed heterosexual romance around one person desperately wanting to be chosen while pretending she doesn’t, and another desperately avoiding choosing anyone until he eventually does.

Then he produces a diamond and everybody cries.

Including me.

I go to friends’ weddings and their husbands stand up and give these gushing speeches about how extraordinary their wives are.

Maybe they wrote them themselves.

Maybe ChatGPT did.

Who the fuck knows.

I still tear up.

Because there’s something intoxicating about someone standing in front of everyone they know and saying:

Her. I choose her.

People point out that my partner has already chosen me.

“But you’ve had a baby together.”

Babies have been conceived behind nightclubs. Next question, please.

“You’ve been together eight years.”

Maybe I’ve just become infrastructure. Next question.

“You bought a house together.”

I pay half the mortgage. Next.

“He’s considering moving to the UK with you.”

I’m taking his child and half the household’s fiscal potential with me. Plus he gets the personal growth of living abroad.

All of those decisions also contain something for him.

He also wanted our child.

He also lives in the house.

He also goes on our holidays.

He also eats the dinner.

And I think that’s where my ridiculous diamond starts to make slightly more sense.

Because I want him to think about me when there’s nothing in it for him. I want to exist in his head when I’m not in the room.

It’s why I love getting flowers.

Yes. Flowers.

I am that basic.

They’re useless.

They die.

They’re probably environmentally questionable.

There is no tax advantage.

They don’t increase the value of our property.

He just has to walk past some flowers, think of me, and decide I would like them.

And I do. Every fucking time.

In my fantasy, he has to go somewhere without me.

Look at rings.

Think about what I like.

Reject some.

Consider others.

Identify the exact ring I have just described to the internet.

Look at the price.

Have a small cardiac event.

And buy it anyway.

There is absolutely nothing sensible about this transaction. In fact, the financial irresponsibility may be part of the appeal.

A house is an asset.

A marriage can have legal and financial advantages.

But a diamond is a tiny rock that has just made you considerably poorer.

And yes, I know.

Diamonds.

Marketing.

Capitalism.

Patriarchy.

Women being chosen.

Men demonstrating wealth.

I understand the critique.

Unfortunately, understanding why you might want something does not necessarily stop you from wanting it.

Which leaves me with more questions: how much of this desire is actually mine? Was I handed that fantasy before I was old enough to interrogate it?

And if I was, does knowing that make it feel any less romantic?

… apparently not.

But saying feminism means I can choose whatever I want feels too easy too.

Maybe I want to be known.

Maybe I want to be surprised.

Maybe I want to be chosen.

Maybe I want proof that, left entirely unsupervised, he can think about me very carefully and get something exactly right.

Maybe Tiffany has simply done an absolutely outstanding job.

I don’t know.

That’s the whole problem.

I don’t think I believe in forever.

I don’t know whether I believe in monogamy.

I don’t particularly want to be a bride.

But if my partner came home tomorrow carrying flowers he bought because he saw them and thought of me, I would be fucking delighted.

No ideological framework would be consulted.

I Don’t Want a Wedding — I Want to Be Proposed To was originally published in The Virago on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.