When I was in college I found the engagement ring questionable at best: you give your hand in marriage and they give you a valuable rock in return?  Much in the manner of buying land from Native Americans with shinny buttons, I was sure that an engagement ring was some sort of cheat.  Or, at best, an engagement ring was some sort of signal to the world that you were worth something or your finance was worth something–so I did not want one.  I actively didn’t want one.  I felt scorn.

Cut to a few years later.  When my ex informed me that his grandmother wanted to give me her ring (actually she did, the first time she met me: “I have a ring for you!”), I was kind of excited.  And a bit embarrassed once I got it to be wearing a big, honking diamond.  I did not feel like a sell-out; I did not feel scorn.  I felt lucky.

However, the one part of The Knot I have no interest in visiting is the engagement ring section.  If I am lucky enough to be proposed by my man, he can use a piece of twine for all I care.