Some things always remain the same. The sky, inevitably, is always blue. College kids, inevitably, always grow up and forget their wayward ways to become more responsible adults. Some douchebags always remains douchebags, and some people still dilute themselves into thinking that they are still 25 and they can dress the part even though their are several decades older.
Other things do change though. Like today, through Facebook of course, I found out that one of my long-term exes proposed to his girlfriend of one year. My first reaction was, thankfully, not, "Oh no! The one that got away!!" It was more like, "Oh Jesus, Mr. Moneybags, you were able to afford a decent ring in THIS economy."
I mean, I guess that's always a good sign when I am feeling more competitive with the dude's money than his love interest. I think that might have been the ultimate test of whether or not I may still have any feelings for him, if I ever needed a test to prove the obvious. Today's emotions showed that, no, indeed, I was not secretly pining over my ex boyfriend and wishing for his ass to come back into my lap.
An engagement is a monumental thing though, not just from a monetary stand point. It does require a level of commitment from a guy that is usually to be appauded. An engagement ritual usually involves a long and agonizing process of a guy pondering whether or not he really wants to propose and give up all the hot chicks lining up to spread the legs for him (trust me, this was SO not the case with my ex...), deciding on the price and the amount to spend, and the actual trip to the store (hopefully that store name does not begin with Wal and end with Mart) to buy the said ring.
An engagement is indeed a prelude to marriage. My ex has always been one of those people who has been painfully dependent on being with someone and on striving for that ultimate field goal that, for him, constitutes a faithful, blissful marriage. While I am happy dancing in clubs on Friday nights, burning the midnight oil on Mondays and drinking my mid-week beer on Wednesdays, he is happy to be with his girl. And while I whole-heartedly admire and respect his goals, I cannot relate them to my own, at this point in my life.
Hell, if Mr. January himself proposed to me today, I'd be all like, "Babe, let's go have a couple of shots and dance it off at a club and talk it over in the morning." Of course, this is coming from a girl who has all the potential to evolve into a 70-year-old crazy cat lady who slaps the perfectly-toned asses of her nursing home attendants and lives in the la-la-land of the better days.