Cold Storage

Ten years ago, I wore a shiny rock on my finger in the form of what appeared to be an engagement ring. I wore it, not because I was going to get married, but because I didn't want to get married. The ring was fake. I was tired of pointless, uncomfortable dates with promising young men who I had no inkling of an interest in. I was tired of etiquette and my own timidity prompting "yes" after "yes" when all I ever meant was "no" with all of my heart. My heart, you see was usually drifting across continents and oceans to the edge of the Black Sea where my best friend was getting thinner and colder by the day. He had been there, in Ukraine for just over a year, proselytizing in a foreign tongue. I had promised him that I would write and wait, wait and write.  I was keeping that promise.

It was my second year at BYU. I was immersed in a culture of not just Mormons, but Mormons on a mission to get married. Dating was the topic of the month, and the month after that, and the one after that as well. A hefty handful of girls from the floor of my freshman hall had already gotten married at the ripe old ages of 18, 19, and 20. I was flabbergasted. I didn't understand how any of the so-called students at my university were concentrating on anything remotely academic. The dating culture seeped in the widows, it permeated walls and carpets. Everything we touched and breathed was infused with this powerful force. Sometimes it was suffocating. Sometimes I longed for my home in the east.

By this point in my sophomore year, I had reluctantly agreed to a stream of date invitations. I always appreciated the free meal and the kindness offered me by the unsuspecting suitors, but I would have preferred to eat cold beans and rice by myself. Typically, there were no repeat invitations. I was shy and cold as my coveted beans, a true turnoff. Finally, one young man from choir apparently couldn't read my body language. After two consecutive dates, he suggested a third and I flatly refused.

 "You're a nice guy, but I can't drag you on. It's not going to go anywhere with me."

Having done the right thing, I hung up the receiver feeling gut-wrenching horrible. I went to moan about it to one of my roommates. She offered me her shoulder and then she offered a solution. She had come back from her recent trip to China with bargained goods. Music, movies, clothing, and jewelry, all for the price of dirt cheap. The ring was hers and so was the idea. "Wear this on the finger that matters," she said, eyes twinkling, " and you'll never be asked on another date!" I slipped it on and pranced around the room flouncing my hand like a preteen with her first manicure.