Engagement ringI’m a sucka for love. I’ve swooned over the corniest, cheesiest, cheapest trinket because a guy was giving it from the heart. One time, when we were really young, stupid, and poor, The Dreaded Ex knelt and proposed with a twisty tie. There I was, a piece of plastic-covered twine wrapped around my ring finger, blubbering like I’d opened my door and seen the Prize Patrol swarming my front step. It was really quite a scene.
Now that I’m older and wiser, I’d be ten times as flattered if I knew my boo had sacrificed his love of Starbucks or his nightly outings with the fellas to save money for some fabulous finger candy. Anybody can whip out a vending machine ring with a piddly stone. A rock says you put a little thought and a lot of scrimping into my token of adoration. In other words, it doesn’t have to look like Kim Kardashian’s monster boulder, but it should be at least a carat. That’s just love.
I’m not a golddigger — heck, I’ve never dated a guy with any gold to dig — but there’s no reason why a working man with a salary and a deep passion for his woman shouldn’t be able to wrangle up an engagement ring that reflects that. It irks my nerves when men squander their money every which kinda way but then want to feign poverty when it comes to shelling out money for their wannabe fiancee’s engagement ring. Don’t stop being big spender now, playboy. That’s when the duckets count.