Dear Saint Valentine,
I have a problem. A BIG problem. Your anniversary is on a Saturday. A Saturday! For the past few years, I have been able to come up with the perfect excuse for why I did not do anything special i.e. romantic on Valentine’s Day: it was a week day; I was busy. I was on the phone with a friend the other day and she happened to mention that Valentine’s Day was on a Saturday, to which I answered – without thinking obviously – “Oh, that’s great!” Then it struck me. What was so great about Valentine’s Day being on a Saturday? The mere thought of it makes me feel like I am breaking out in shingles.
Some years ago, Valentine’s Day was on a Monday. As usual, I had no plans, and I did not feel bad either – thank God for the huge exam I had that morning. As far as I was concerned, the only reason why I was not out having a lovely moment with a loved one was because it was a Monday. Who cared if there was no loved one to actually have a lovely time with? No one had to know the truth. But I came home that day overwhelmed by all the love-struck people I saw along the way. People had huge red and pink balloons in their cars, blocking their vision – and mine. The cold weather did not deter lovers from standing at bus stops and swapping spit, all in the name of kissing. God, I wished I was swapping spit with someone.
Desperate times have always called for desperate measures, so in my loneliness – dare I say, desperation – I did the unthinkable. I sent a ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ text message to a little coward who appeared in the form of a human being and called itself a man. I did not know then what I saw in it. Now that time has passed, I really, really do not know what I saw in it. It is amazing the heights a girl will climb to avoid loneliness on Valentine’s Day. My love for meat made me call a cow my brother, but you see, it just goes to show that your anniversary does bad things to good people. I needed company (even if it was on the phone), dear Saint Valentine, so please do not judge me. Alright, fine. You can judge me. I made a dumb move. If I could do it all over again, I would rather count the hairs on my head than send that text message. But I digress.
I was wondering if you, dear lovely Saint Valentine, could talk to the people – whoever they are – who made the calendar and have them do one of two things. They could either reschedule your anniversary for another day (like Monday, and this time, I promise not to do anything foolish), or they could assign you a completely new anniversary date (although I do love your anniversary being exactly one month after mine). Another option – one that I actually prefer – is for you to find me something fun to do – with someone, that is.
If there were a way for me to avoid going to stores like Wal-Mart where aisles and aisles are coated with pink and red – all things Valentine, I would. I am not quite sure how you intended for people to celebrate your anniversary, but newsflash…only the passionate lovers get a kick out of it. In spite of what the Hallmark and Mahogany cards may want us to believe, your anniversary is not a day for brotherly and sisterly love to be rewarded and/or exhibited. Your anniversary has little to no tolerance for agape love. It is all about passionate, romantic love – an area where I am currently dangerously deficient in.
If you know as much about love as history portrays that you do, then you should know that being deficient in passionate, romantic love can lead to destructive behaviors – like texting certain people one would otherwise not have texted. Other adverse effects of not having this type of love on Valentine’s Day include clutching one’s stuffed animal a little too tightly, crying for every movie, commercial, and greeting card, seriously envying every couple, eating a whole bucket of ice cream, and worst of them all, calling that person you swore you would never call unless hell froze over and the angels used it as a skating ring.
But come the morning of February fifteenth, one begins to bombard herself with the what-have-I-done question. She knows what she has done; she just wishes it was a nightmare. But alas, it is not. It is then she realizes that on the fourteenth of February, she sunk to rock bottom. And then, she sunk some more. That is what happens when one does not have love on Valentine’s Day. Yes, she begins to send text messages to people that go against her natural gradient – a perfect recipe for a future disaster, I tell you.
I could tell you that I do not care if I celebrate the day alone, but I would be lying to you. I could tell you that I would love to spend the day with family and friends, but that would be a big, fat lie too. Should I tell you then that I would rather spend it with someone but not just anyone? I guess I could tell you that, but you should know that already by now, dear Saint Valentine.
Valentine’s Day is a day meant for lovers. We may kid ourselves all we want and say otherwise.
We may say, ‘Why do I have to pick a special day to show my love? I show my love everyday.’ That may be so, but we are humans. We need special days in our lives. That is why Sunday is the Sabbath day. Does that mean we do not praise God every other day? That is why we have our birthdays. Does that mean we do not grow old every other day? And what about Christmas? Does that mean Christ’s birth is not celebrated every other day? So you see, special days are important because sometimes we forget and get carried away. The special day reinforces what we already know. Who does not need a little reinforcement in the form of a hand-written love note? Yummy.
That being said, I would prefer spending Valentine’s Day loving and being loved. The alternative is organizing and attending a solo event which will be called the Singles Awareness Conference – just in case you have forgotten you are single, let this day serve as a reminder. My friend, Funmi gladly suggested that we should stay home and order some pizza, after which we would head to Cold Stone Creamery to have some creamy ice cream. I sternly declined her offer. I refuse to spend this Valentine’s Day with her – especially at Cold Stone where love-struck couples will stand in line for some heart-shaped cakes while they nibble on each other’s lips, suck on each other’s tongues, and whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears – to my detriment. No way. I would rather watch a tree grow.
So you see, Saint Valentine, I need your help. It is not as if I have ever asked you for anything before – except for that time I asked you for a nice, honest man. Come to think of it, that was the year you sent me that counterfeit, the one that downed kegs of Guinness Stout every day and prided himself in his alcohol tolerance, only to end up driving recklessly and acquiring two speeding tickets in one night. Ah, common sense is not so common after all. What a waste of my time that was. Did I mention that already? But everyone deserves a second chance, so I will give you a second chance to prove yourself, Saint Valentine.
Dear Saint Valentine, what I am asking is that you should make my Valentine worthwhile. Make it unforgettable. Make it pleasant. Make it fun. Make it Verastic.
P.S. In spite of what I might have said about Wal-Mart, I actually love those dancing, singing stuffed animals. Too cute.
P.P.S. The singing cards are especially adorable. Especially the big Hallmark one that sings, “Wild thing! You make my heart sing…!”
P.P.P.S. I may have thought about it, but I have never, ever stoned a couple that I have seen locked in a passionate kiss. I have only wished to be locked in one too.
P.P.P.P.S. If you decide to be kind to me and send me someone to give me a Verastic Valentine, please make sure he gets the memo: I do not care to receive a box of chocolates.
P.P.P.P.P.S. But if he really, really likes chocolate, then who am I to say no? I shall oblige him – even if for a day.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Do people still send hand-written love notes? If they do, have him send one to me. I would love to reply. I happen to have a nice, readable hand-writing – if I do say so myself.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. The thought of swapping spit with someone, having my lips nibbled on, my ribs tickled, my neck sucked on, and my body being engulfed in one’s warm embrace is not repulsive at all – neither does it make me break out in a rash. If anything, I welcome it.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I really do love Valentine, dear Saint Valentine.
vera@verastic.com
P. O. BOX 7893
Essex, MD 21221
United States of America
443-934-9039
www.verastic.com
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
This Marriage Thing Sef
Marriage today is not what it used to be. Let me rephrase that: marriage is not what I thought it was. It is not what I think it should be. And no, I am not yet married.
Marriage is supposed to be a bond between a man and a woman, held by love. When you are getting married, you are supposed to be getting married to your best friend, your soul mate, your other half. For men, you are supposed to be getting married to the woman who has your rib in her, the woman who has your missing rib. And for women, you are supposed to be getting married to the man whose rib you have in you. When ‘marriage’ comes to mind, people often think of love, romance, happiness, eternal bliss, love, love, love.
For too many, however, marriage does not quite live up to its expectation(s). Obviously, before you get married, you ought to keep in mind that problems will come up. There will be trials and tribulations. You ought to keep in mind that there will be difficult times. Philosophers will always advise you to expect the unexpected. Married people expect problems, but ironically, they never expect the problems they actually get.
A man gets married to what he considers a beautiful woman. He expects that she will undergo physical changes, especially after having his children. Her stomach might get a little rounder; her thighs might get a little chunkier; her feet might get bigger. Hmm, it will only be a matter of time before gravity descends on her breasts. So he expects all of this, but he does not foresee one of her butt cheeks to equal the size of their jumbo pillow. He does not foresee her stomach to be bigger than his beer gut. And while, he expected her feet to grow a little bigger, he did not ever think they would grow big enough to fit his shoes. And her breasts? Let’s just say it can go for miles. The thing seems to be longer every time he sees it.
They used to have a great sex life, but now she is too busy catering for the children to satisfy his needs. By the time she comes to bed, she smells of maggi cubes and curry. Her hair consistently remains undone. He is not quite sure if she is taking out the weave on her head or fixing a new one. The whole thing is a mess. Her nails are as sharp as a razor blade. He has the evidence to prove this on their bed sheets which are constantly sliced by her toe nails. And when was the last time she shaved? She has taken the word, ‘natural’ to a whole new level. Whoever told her he wants to be in bed with a grizzly bear?
Once upon a time, she used to wear neck-breaking lingerie to bed, but now, he is constantly being assaulted with the hospital gowns she calls night gowns. If only she will take a minute and reinvest in deodorants. She does not stink, but he will prefer a less natural smell. This woman who once used to be very discrete no longer feels the need to close the bathroom door while she is doing number two. She no longer deems it necessary to excuse herself before farting. Why excuse herself when her husband will love to inhale the fresh, unadulterated stench that escapes from her butt hole?
But these are all minor problems compared to the real, serious problems. Ever since she got a better job, she has become rude and disobedient. She cooks food that only she will enjoy. She has become a little too willing to order food. Wait a minute; is that Papa John’s Pizza on speed dial? She has become very quick to talk back and even tell him that he is not her God. Apparently, she can make it on her own. It amazes him that in spite of the increase in her salary, she does not make as much as he does, yet her insults continue to increase. He shudders to think of what will happen if she ever makes as much as he does. God forbid that she ever makes more. If she does, he will turn his manhood in without disputing it because he knows it will be the end of his manliness anyway.
One of the things he cannot get past is the fact that she will not stop sending so much money to her mother. He understands that her father left them with almost nothing, and he understands that her mother suffered so much for her, but she is a married woman now. She does not understand that she is now a part of him, and what she does affects him. For God’s sake, his mother is still well and alive, and he would love to send her money more often, but he knows he has a wife and children to cater for. These are just some of his complaints. The Mrs. probably has a different side to the story.
*******************************************************
She thought she was getting married to her best friend and confidant, but there is nothing confidential about their affairs. She does not really speak to Nneka, Peter’s wife, but somehow, Nneka knows about her inability to cook egwusi soup well. Nneka knows that every time she cooks egwusi soup, the water and the oil become very bitter enemies in the pot: they simply refuse to be joined together. The other day, Nneka offered to teach her how to cook egwusi soup. What insolence! Who told Nneka about this? Oh yeah, her husband is a good friend to Nneka’s husband.
Before they got married, he promised to stop drinking and smoking. He is yet to quit either. He smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish. One day, he will drink himself to stupor and smoke himself to ashes. He comes to bed smelling like an ash tray dumped in a cheap bar and expects her to wear lingerie to bed? He has to be high on something.
She sees the way he looks at her. She knows he does not like the way she looks. He looks at her like she disgusts him. He looks at her like he would much rather be looking at something else, or someone else. Perhaps, someone slimmer, someone prettier, someone lighter. She knows he does not like what he sees in her. Why on earth will she wear skimpy lingerie to bed when her husband cannot even stand the sight of her? Why will she expose her ‘lumps’? No oh.
These days, she has no interest in sex anymore. Well, she still has interest, but she refuses to subject herself to such degradation. She would rather utilize Mr. Denzel, her three-hundred dollar vibrator. He is worth every penny she spent on him. Too bad he is not tax deductable. He probably thinks of someone else while he is inside her anyway. He probably closes his eyes while he is on top of her. He probably cannot wait to burst a nut, so he can get out of her. He probably only does it because he needs to – not because he wants to. Why will she want to have sex with such a man?
She believes he is very selfish. Why else will he expect her to work several hours a day, come home and take care of the kids, help them to do their assignment, prepare dinner, and then be in the mood to satisfy his needs in bed? When she is in the mood, she is too tired; when she is not tired, she is not in the mood. And when she is in the mood and not tired, she would rather be with Mr. Denzel. At least, she is guaranteed to have his time for more than five minutes – unlike some other people she knows.
She does not know why he keeps complaining about the money she sends home to her mother. Has she ever stopped him from sending money to his own mother? Does he know what her mother went through when her father left them for another woman? There is nothing he will say that will make her stop sending money to her mother. She works hard for her money, and she has every right to spend it how she wants to. Besides, she has always dreamt of the day she will finally be able to show her mother some appreciation for all she went through when her father left them high and dry. And now this man thinks she will stop spoiling her mother because some husband said she should? Please!
She does not know why he is always complaining about the money she makes. It is not like she makes more than him anyway. He just cannot handle the fact that she now makes so much money. He cannot seem to comprehend that she is no longer the young, naïve little girl whose bride price he paid several years ago. He cannot accept that she no longer needs to run to him for every little thing. Gone are the days when she used to beg for money for bras, panties, and sanitary pad. He needs to get over himself already. She is no longer a girl; she is now a woman.
I am quite certain that at the point a couple says, ‘I do,’ they are probably in love. They might spend thousands of dollars on the wedding and everything concerning it, but a few months down the line, trouble sprouts up like weed: the more you kill them, the more they grow. Somehow, no chemical can completely get rid of them, and the chemical that does get rid of the weed also hurts the plants. Is there really a win-win situation?
Once upon a time, I used to go ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ whenever I heard about a wedding, but these days, I am almost filled with sadness for the couple. I almost want to give them a condolence card. This is not to say that I do not want to get married. I do want to get married, and I intend to get married, but marriage does not have the same effect anymore. I do not even have any couple to look up to and say, ‘aww.’ Apart from tax breaks, a possibly fatter income, and beautiful children, I am seriously beginning to wonder what else one stands to gain from marriage.
I think I would be speaking for most when I say that for unmarried people in my generation, marriage is something we want but fear. No man is an island, and no sane man would want to be an island. Somewhere inside of us, we all crave a kind of connection that only a spouse can give us, but are we willing to do the work? Are we really willing to have petty arguments over and over? Are we willing to be used and abused by our in-laws? Are we willing to not be always liked by our spouse? I mean, marriage is a life time commitment, or at least, it is supposed to be a life time commitment. Who wants to make a mistake and live with it forever? I know I do not.
There is just something about Nigerian/African marriages that make me stop and ponder. Does jumping the broom mean you are no longer allowed to be yourself? I realize that after jumping the broom, there are certain things you should probably stop doing (like going out and coming in at three in the morning…unless of course, it is just a once in a blue moon guys/girls night out with your friends). But does getting married mean that your going out should be limited to work and home alone? Does getting married mean that your wardrobe should now be limited to only Iro and Buba? I do not condone wearing clothes that are too revealing (regardless of your marital status), but should getting married mean that you should start wearing only turtleneck lookalikes no matter the season?
I may not be married, but having observed a lot of marriages and found in them nothing that thrills or excites me, I have realized that one problem with marriages is habit. Marriage becomes a game of habit. Who says you cannot attend a friend’s night party because you are now married? Who says you cannot spend an entire day at Six Flags and scream your hearts out on every ride? What stops you from going to a poetry parlor? Oh, that’s right. You are married now. You can only go to work, come home, eat egwusi soup, watch TV, do whatever you do in bed, and sleep. Then you wake up in the morning and repeat the cycle.
There has got to be a better way to be married because this current marriage thing sef…e get as e be oh!!
www.verastic.com
vera@verastic.com
Marriage is supposed to be a bond between a man and a woman, held by love. When you are getting married, you are supposed to be getting married to your best friend, your soul mate, your other half. For men, you are supposed to be getting married to the woman who has your rib in her, the woman who has your missing rib. And for women, you are supposed to be getting married to the man whose rib you have in you. When ‘marriage’ comes to mind, people often think of love, romance, happiness, eternal bliss, love, love, love.
For too many, however, marriage does not quite live up to its expectation(s). Obviously, before you get married, you ought to keep in mind that problems will come up. There will be trials and tribulations. You ought to keep in mind that there will be difficult times. Philosophers will always advise you to expect the unexpected. Married people expect problems, but ironically, they never expect the problems they actually get.
A man gets married to what he considers a beautiful woman. He expects that she will undergo physical changes, especially after having his children. Her stomach might get a little rounder; her thighs might get a little chunkier; her feet might get bigger. Hmm, it will only be a matter of time before gravity descends on her breasts. So he expects all of this, but he does not foresee one of her butt cheeks to equal the size of their jumbo pillow. He does not foresee her stomach to be bigger than his beer gut. And while, he expected her feet to grow a little bigger, he did not ever think they would grow big enough to fit his shoes. And her breasts? Let’s just say it can go for miles. The thing seems to be longer every time he sees it.
They used to have a great sex life, but now she is too busy catering for the children to satisfy his needs. By the time she comes to bed, she smells of maggi cubes and curry. Her hair consistently remains undone. He is not quite sure if she is taking out the weave on her head or fixing a new one. The whole thing is a mess. Her nails are as sharp as a razor blade. He has the evidence to prove this on their bed sheets which are constantly sliced by her toe nails. And when was the last time she shaved? She has taken the word, ‘natural’ to a whole new level. Whoever told her he wants to be in bed with a grizzly bear?
Once upon a time, she used to wear neck-breaking lingerie to bed, but now, he is constantly being assaulted with the hospital gowns she calls night gowns. If only she will take a minute and reinvest in deodorants. She does not stink, but he will prefer a less natural smell. This woman who once used to be very discrete no longer feels the need to close the bathroom door while she is doing number two. She no longer deems it necessary to excuse herself before farting. Why excuse herself when her husband will love to inhale the fresh, unadulterated stench that escapes from her butt hole?
But these are all minor problems compared to the real, serious problems. Ever since she got a better job, she has become rude and disobedient. She cooks food that only she will enjoy. She has become a little too willing to order food. Wait a minute; is that Papa John’s Pizza on speed dial? She has become very quick to talk back and even tell him that he is not her God. Apparently, she can make it on her own. It amazes him that in spite of the increase in her salary, she does not make as much as he does, yet her insults continue to increase. He shudders to think of what will happen if she ever makes as much as he does. God forbid that she ever makes more. If she does, he will turn his manhood in without disputing it because he knows it will be the end of his manliness anyway.
One of the things he cannot get past is the fact that she will not stop sending so much money to her mother. He understands that her father left them with almost nothing, and he understands that her mother suffered so much for her, but she is a married woman now. She does not understand that she is now a part of him, and what she does affects him. For God’s sake, his mother is still well and alive, and he would love to send her money more often, but he knows he has a wife and children to cater for. These are just some of his complaints. The Mrs. probably has a different side to the story.
*******************************************************
She thought she was getting married to her best friend and confidant, but there is nothing confidential about their affairs. She does not really speak to Nneka, Peter’s wife, but somehow, Nneka knows about her inability to cook egwusi soup well. Nneka knows that every time she cooks egwusi soup, the water and the oil become very bitter enemies in the pot: they simply refuse to be joined together. The other day, Nneka offered to teach her how to cook egwusi soup. What insolence! Who told Nneka about this? Oh yeah, her husband is a good friend to Nneka’s husband.
Before they got married, he promised to stop drinking and smoking. He is yet to quit either. He smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish. One day, he will drink himself to stupor and smoke himself to ashes. He comes to bed smelling like an ash tray dumped in a cheap bar and expects her to wear lingerie to bed? He has to be high on something.
She sees the way he looks at her. She knows he does not like the way she looks. He looks at her like she disgusts him. He looks at her like he would much rather be looking at something else, or someone else. Perhaps, someone slimmer, someone prettier, someone lighter. She knows he does not like what he sees in her. Why on earth will she wear skimpy lingerie to bed when her husband cannot even stand the sight of her? Why will she expose her ‘lumps’? No oh.
These days, she has no interest in sex anymore. Well, she still has interest, but she refuses to subject herself to such degradation. She would rather utilize Mr. Denzel, her three-hundred dollar vibrator. He is worth every penny she spent on him. Too bad he is not tax deductable. He probably thinks of someone else while he is inside her anyway. He probably closes his eyes while he is on top of her. He probably cannot wait to burst a nut, so he can get out of her. He probably only does it because he needs to – not because he wants to. Why will she want to have sex with such a man?
She believes he is very selfish. Why else will he expect her to work several hours a day, come home and take care of the kids, help them to do their assignment, prepare dinner, and then be in the mood to satisfy his needs in bed? When she is in the mood, she is too tired; when she is not tired, she is not in the mood. And when she is in the mood and not tired, she would rather be with Mr. Denzel. At least, she is guaranteed to have his time for more than five minutes – unlike some other people she knows.
She does not know why he keeps complaining about the money she sends home to her mother. Has she ever stopped him from sending money to his own mother? Does he know what her mother went through when her father left them for another woman? There is nothing he will say that will make her stop sending money to her mother. She works hard for her money, and she has every right to spend it how she wants to. Besides, she has always dreamt of the day she will finally be able to show her mother some appreciation for all she went through when her father left them high and dry. And now this man thinks she will stop spoiling her mother because some husband said she should? Please!
She does not know why he is always complaining about the money she makes. It is not like she makes more than him anyway. He just cannot handle the fact that she now makes so much money. He cannot seem to comprehend that she is no longer the young, naïve little girl whose bride price he paid several years ago. He cannot accept that she no longer needs to run to him for every little thing. Gone are the days when she used to beg for money for bras, panties, and sanitary pad. He needs to get over himself already. She is no longer a girl; she is now a woman.
***************************************************************
I am quite certain that at the point a couple says, ‘I do,’ they are probably in love. They might spend thousands of dollars on the wedding and everything concerning it, but a few months down the line, trouble sprouts up like weed: the more you kill them, the more they grow. Somehow, no chemical can completely get rid of them, and the chemical that does get rid of the weed also hurts the plants. Is there really a win-win situation?
Once upon a time, I used to go ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ whenever I heard about a wedding, but these days, I am almost filled with sadness for the couple. I almost want to give them a condolence card. This is not to say that I do not want to get married. I do want to get married, and I intend to get married, but marriage does not have the same effect anymore. I do not even have any couple to look up to and say, ‘aww.’ Apart from tax breaks, a possibly fatter income, and beautiful children, I am seriously beginning to wonder what else one stands to gain from marriage.
I think I would be speaking for most when I say that for unmarried people in my generation, marriage is something we want but fear. No man is an island, and no sane man would want to be an island. Somewhere inside of us, we all crave a kind of connection that only a spouse can give us, but are we willing to do the work? Are we really willing to have petty arguments over and over? Are we willing to be used and abused by our in-laws? Are we willing to not be always liked by our spouse? I mean, marriage is a life time commitment, or at least, it is supposed to be a life time commitment. Who wants to make a mistake and live with it forever? I know I do not.
There is just something about Nigerian/African marriages that make me stop and ponder. Does jumping the broom mean you are no longer allowed to be yourself? I realize that after jumping the broom, there are certain things you should probably stop doing (like going out and coming in at three in the morning…unless of course, it is just a once in a blue moon guys/girls night out with your friends). But does getting married mean that your going out should be limited to work and home alone? Does getting married mean that your wardrobe should now be limited to only Iro and Buba? I do not condone wearing clothes that are too revealing (regardless of your marital status), but should getting married mean that you should start wearing only turtleneck lookalikes no matter the season?
I may not be married, but having observed a lot of marriages and found in them nothing that thrills or excites me, I have realized that one problem with marriages is habit. Marriage becomes a game of habit. Who says you cannot attend a friend’s night party because you are now married? Who says you cannot spend an entire day at Six Flags and scream your hearts out on every ride? What stops you from going to a poetry parlor? Oh, that’s right. You are married now. You can only go to work, come home, eat egwusi soup, watch TV, do whatever you do in bed, and sleep. Then you wake up in the morning and repeat the cycle.
There has got to be a better way to be married because this current marriage thing sef…e get as e be oh!!
www.verastic.com
vera@verastic.com
Friday, November 30, 2007
Is It Just Me?
For so long, I have stayed away from writing about this because I figured certain people might not take it the right way and it might strike some controversy, but now that I think about it, when has controversy ever been my enemy? Never! So I apologize, but I can no longer keep my peace. Seriously speaking, all things being equal, how much should an engagement ring cost?
Let me make my stand known. I, Vera Ezimora, do solemnly swear that I cannot and will not appreciate a cheap ring. I will take it, but I cannot appreciate it. Now, I do not expect him to rob a bank or remain in perpetual debt because he wants to buy my ring (unless he insists, of course), but common, cut me some slack.
This is the way I think about it: if you can finance an eight hundred dollar camera and a one thousand dollar computer, then why not a six thousand dollar ring? Seriously who says you have to pay everything at once? Likewise, I do not want my husband wearing a cheap ring either. I know men do not generally care too much for their bands, but I do.
I have been in perpetual disagreement with my friends, Funmi and Busola. Actually, Busola and I are on opposite ends; she does not care how much her ring costs while Funmi and I completely agree that the ring should cost a little something-something. Know what I mean? Funmi wants her ring to cost at least ten thousand dollars, but she will settle for nine (funny, I know). I, on the other hand, do not have a particular amount, but I do know the ring I want, and I know it is at least five thousand dollars. If it means anything to you, Uju is on our side.
I am glad that I have one Yoruba girl on our side because you know how we (Igbo girls) are famous for being famous gold diggers. Needless to say, any gold digger that will accept a five thousand dollar ring cannot be a true gold digger; she needs some lessons. That being said, I am removing myself from the list of gold diggers – just in case you have put me there.
I am not someone who is big on jewelry; in fact, my everyday life does not consist of me wearing any jewelry apart from my wrist watch. If you were to run into me on the street, you would probably think I am a member of one of those churches that do not believe in wearing jewelry. I need not mention any names. I only have time for jewelry when I am actually going somewhere – as in attending a function. And when I do attend those functions, the jewelries I wear do not put dents in my account. Can you believe that at my age I do not have one single real diamond? Do not be fooled by the sparkly things I wear; they are all fake, but I do not mind really…at least not yet. Of course, if you are considering buying me a real diamond, I would be foolish to say no. Speaking of things I do not have at my age, can you believe I have received flowers only twice? And both times, I got them from the same guy (an admirer). Do not let me bore you with my tales of woe.
But when it comes to my engagement ring, I refuse to compromise. I can wear my fake jewelries for a few hours and take them off, but my engagement ring stays on twenty-four-seven. I get to meet a lot of brides-to-be on a daily basis, and some of them do not even have to say they are engaged before you know it. The sparkle from their rings is enough to blind you. Sadly, the brides with the sparkling rings are hardly Nigerians. Or Africans. Only a handful have been descendants from the Motherland. For some other women, of course, you can hardly even notice they are engaged. When they tell me they are engaged, I have to dilate my eyes to two hundred percent to find the rings. Sometimes, I want to say something ignorant, like “Oh, is that your ring? I thought that was just glitter from your lotion!” The only reason I do not say it is because I am afraid of getting beaten up. You know I cannot fight.
I am not an inconsiderate person – at least not to my knowledge, so I do not expect a man who truly cannot even afford to make the monthly payments to buy me such a ring, so in such a case, I will most definitely compromise. But I will do it in hopes of a better tomorrow. In other words, I will do it in hopes that my ring will be upgraded in the nearest future. However, if he can afford it, but simply thinks it is a waste of money, then we are going to have a problem. Whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well, right? If my fiancé (whom I do not have right now) gets me a ring I do not want, I will be crying during the proposal, but they would not be tears of joy. I bet you know what I will be crying for.
Am I asking for too much? I do not think I am. I am not asking that he buys me bracelets every month (although that will be good); I am not asking that he even goes to Jared every Valentine’s Day (although that will also be good); and I am most certainly not asking that my engagement ring be from Harry Winston (although the thought of it causes sweat beads of joy to form on my forehead). All I am asking for is my engagement ring – the one I want – the one with the visible diamond, set on platinum (not gold, thank you!). Will he not gloat and bask in the glory when other people praise him for my ring? Will his head not get swollen when other women tell me how lucky I am to have him? Have I asked for too much? Will I not wear this ring everyday for the rest of my life? Should I not be entitled to a ring that will not fade after a few months or years? Is it so bad for me to adore the ring my husband has so beautifully adorned on my finger? I know you know the answers to my questions.
So I ask again, is it just me? Surely, there has to be someone else (apart from Funmi and Uju) who believes that an engagement ring should cost a pretty penny. Of course, it is what the ring represents that truly counts, so why not make it count for a lot? The weight of my big diamond is enough to remind me that I belong to someone. But if I am forced to wear a light weight ring, I cannot be blamed for forgetting that I am engaged (or married). And you know what will happen when I forget.
Diamonds are forever. Heavy diamonds are forever and ever and ever…and then some!
You're welcome to reach me...
verastic@yahoo.com
http://verastic.blogspot.com
http://veraezimora.blogspot.com
443-834-7374
Let me make my stand known. I, Vera Ezimora, do solemnly swear that I cannot and will not appreciate a cheap ring. I will take it, but I cannot appreciate it. Now, I do not expect him to rob a bank or remain in perpetual debt because he wants to buy my ring (unless he insists, of course), but common, cut me some slack.
This is the way I think about it: if you can finance an eight hundred dollar camera and a one thousand dollar computer, then why not a six thousand dollar ring? Seriously who says you have to pay everything at once? Likewise, I do not want my husband wearing a cheap ring either. I know men do not generally care too much for their bands, but I do.
I have been in perpetual disagreement with my friends, Funmi and Busola. Actually, Busola and I are on opposite ends; she does not care how much her ring costs while Funmi and I completely agree that the ring should cost a little something-something. Know what I mean? Funmi wants her ring to cost at least ten thousand dollars, but she will settle for nine (funny, I know). I, on the other hand, do not have a particular amount, but I do know the ring I want, and I know it is at least five thousand dollars. If it means anything to you, Uju is on our side.
I am glad that I have one Yoruba girl on our side because you know how we (Igbo girls) are famous for being famous gold diggers. Needless to say, any gold digger that will accept a five thousand dollar ring cannot be a true gold digger; she needs some lessons. That being said, I am removing myself from the list of gold diggers – just in case you have put me there.
I am not someone who is big on jewelry; in fact, my everyday life does not consist of me wearing any jewelry apart from my wrist watch. If you were to run into me on the street, you would probably think I am a member of one of those churches that do not believe in wearing jewelry. I need not mention any names. I only have time for jewelry when I am actually going somewhere – as in attending a function. And when I do attend those functions, the jewelries I wear do not put dents in my account. Can you believe that at my age I do not have one single real diamond? Do not be fooled by the sparkly things I wear; they are all fake, but I do not mind really…at least not yet. Of course, if you are considering buying me a real diamond, I would be foolish to say no. Speaking of things I do not have at my age, can you believe I have received flowers only twice? And both times, I got them from the same guy (an admirer). Do not let me bore you with my tales of woe.
But when it comes to my engagement ring, I refuse to compromise. I can wear my fake jewelries for a few hours and take them off, but my engagement ring stays on twenty-four-seven. I get to meet a lot of brides-to-be on a daily basis, and some of them do not even have to say they are engaged before you know it. The sparkle from their rings is enough to blind you. Sadly, the brides with the sparkling rings are hardly Nigerians. Or Africans. Only a handful have been descendants from the Motherland. For some other women, of course, you can hardly even notice they are engaged. When they tell me they are engaged, I have to dilate my eyes to two hundred percent to find the rings. Sometimes, I want to say something ignorant, like “Oh, is that your ring? I thought that was just glitter from your lotion!” The only reason I do not say it is because I am afraid of getting beaten up. You know I cannot fight.
I am not an inconsiderate person – at least not to my knowledge, so I do not expect a man who truly cannot even afford to make the monthly payments to buy me such a ring, so in such a case, I will most definitely compromise. But I will do it in hopes of a better tomorrow. In other words, I will do it in hopes that my ring will be upgraded in the nearest future. However, if he can afford it, but simply thinks it is a waste of money, then we are going to have a problem. Whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well, right? If my fiancé (whom I do not have right now) gets me a ring I do not want, I will be crying during the proposal, but they would not be tears of joy. I bet you know what I will be crying for.
Am I asking for too much? I do not think I am. I am not asking that he buys me bracelets every month (although that will be good); I am not asking that he even goes to Jared every Valentine’s Day (although that will also be good); and I am most certainly not asking that my engagement ring be from Harry Winston (although the thought of it causes sweat beads of joy to form on my forehead). All I am asking for is my engagement ring – the one I want – the one with the visible diamond, set on platinum (not gold, thank you!). Will he not gloat and bask in the glory when other people praise him for my ring? Will his head not get swollen when other women tell me how lucky I am to have him? Have I asked for too much? Will I not wear this ring everyday for the rest of my life? Should I not be entitled to a ring that will not fade after a few months or years? Is it so bad for me to adore the ring my husband has so beautifully adorned on my finger? I know you know the answers to my questions.
So I ask again, is it just me? Surely, there has to be someone else (apart from Funmi and Uju) who believes that an engagement ring should cost a pretty penny. Of course, it is what the ring represents that truly counts, so why not make it count for a lot? The weight of my big diamond is enough to remind me that I belong to someone. But if I am forced to wear a light weight ring, I cannot be blamed for forgetting that I am engaged (or married). And you know what will happen when I forget.
Diamonds are forever. Heavy diamonds are forever and ever and ever…and then some!
You're welcome to reach me...
verastic@yahoo.com
http://verastic.blogspot.com
http://veraezimora.blogspot.com
443-834-7374
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