Rush to the altar

My best friend got engaged on New Years' Eve when the ball dropped. We spent the rest of the night crying in the bathroom talking about bridesmaids, keeping in touch and how she'll always have time for me even when they have six kids and blah, blah, blah. Although I am happy for her, there is a persistent little tug in the back of my head that tells me I will be spending a lot of nights in the same scenario before 2003 rolls around.

The thought was first planted in my head over the summer when I was a bridesmaid in my other best friend's wedding. I stood there in the purple dress that I paid $150 to only wear once, watching her father kiss her on the cheek and hand her over to this guy. She looked so happy. And so young.

Beautiful, of course, but somehow swamped by the yards of white fabric that she seemed too small to be wearing. We all appeared too tiny to be in that church doing what we were doing.

At the reception, I ended up missing the bouquet toss, and that was somehow comforting. At least I didn't have momentary panic, with the flowers suspended in mid-air, that they would curse me to an early marriage like everyone else I know.

I am 21 years old and my longest relationship has still only lasted four months. If I were to become the next person in that crowd to get married, it would just be sad desperation. And I am not desperate.

I, in fact, have actually never wanted to get married. People think I am joking, in denial or any other number of explanations for my abnormalcy, but I swear it is the truth.

If anyone thinks I am in the minority at JMU for enjoying singleness, they should visit the college that I transferred from. Every girl was there to find a mate before freshman year ended and to get a Mrs. degree as soon as possible. And the guys were as bad as the girls. I can name at least five of my friends from my former university who already are married and a good dozen who are now engaged (half of which are younger than me).

Don't even get me started on my high school. At various times this past summer, everywhere I went girls from the tennis team, the drama group and the cheerleading squad squealed excitedly and blinded me with their sparkling left hand. This was always followed by the question of my status, which got a pitying look and a consoling pat on the arm. The gesture was a silent, "Don't worry, Becca, you'll find someone."

And I hate that, I hate that, I hate that. I am not defective because I am single. I am young and I have a future that I am excited about and a wonderful group of friends. I am not to be pitied simply because the altar isn't in my immediate grasp.

I realize that quoting "The Feminine Mystique" may not appeal to everyone but the first chapter reads, "By the end of the 1950s the average marriage age of women in America dropped to 20, and was still dropping, into the teens. Fourteen million girls were engaged by 17." Seventeen. Yikes.

When I researched the decades following the '50s, I felt momentarily better about my generation. The press release from the Commerce Department's Census Bureau said "between 1970 and 2000 the median age at first marriage for women increased by 4.3 years to 25.1 years; for men, the increase was 3.6 years to 26.8 years" (www.census.gov/population/www/socdemo/hh-fam.html).

Twenty-five still seemed freakishly young to me but it's a lot better than 17. I consoled myself by thinking about how horrible it must have been to try to be a socially independent woman in 1970.

But then I researched 2001. Get this: the average marrying age for females last year was 21.9, and 26.1 for males (www.gedhtree.com/gedstats.htm). Because I will be 22 in a month, I suppose technically I am 21.9 right now.

My friend Emily pointed out that society needs to acknowledge the antiquated views that are still part of today's way of thinking. "Women are fed the fairytale," she said. "They are taught that happily-ever-after will happen, and so they end up looking for verification of themselves through males."

Maybe that's why divorce rates are more than 50 percent. We follow the fairytale and panic when the perfection is shattered. Then 10 years later, we have 12 ex-true-loves and three kids without a father.

I am worried for my generation. I really am. Don't get me wrong. I celebrate love and all that it represents, but it seems to me that if so many people are so ready to become "one" through holy union, that must mean that they only feel like a "half" right now. And that is just sad.