My sister let out a scream so mighty that I could hear it over the sound of my own panic. We both sprinted away from a crowd of people, none of whom seemed bothered by the projectile that was headed right for them. I pivoted to the left while my sister headed to the right, and we didn’t meet back up until we got past the crowd. Wide-eyed and out of breath, we both knew how close we’d come to being hit. We paused to collect ourselves—and that’s when we heard the laughter. We looked up to see our cousin Harry, one hand on his chuckling belly, the other pointing at the two of us. “Neither of them wanted to catch that bouquet! They both screamed so loud, you’d think those flowers were a grenade!”
A family wedding in my early twenties was when I was first hit with the germ of a thought: Maybe I wasn’t that interested in getting married. I had been pushed out to the dance floor with the rest of the single ladies, as ritual dictates, to stand in a group while the bride throws her bouquet out to all the matrimonial hopefuls. The ladies must shove, push, and jump at the chance to catch it, the way an eager outfielder looks to grab a fly ball. But I was never thrilled to be out there, so I didn’t even bring my glove to the field. I’d find a spot far away from the action and then turn around so that my back was to the crowd. Squeals of delight filled the air as the pitch went live, and as everyone focused on scrambling for the flowers, I seized the opportunity to run in the opposite direction. I wanted no part of this game.
And so, as my twenty-fifth birthday approached, my parents asked me if there was anything special I wanted for this milestone year. I had an answer right away: a diamond ring. Over the years I’d received a small diamond necklace and diamond earrings as gifts, but never a ring. I told my parents the diamond didn’t have to be big or fancy, but there was a purpose in this request: “I’d like to know that I never have to rely on marrying a man just to get a nice ring.” The day came, and my parents delivered what I asked for: a tiny stone in a plain setting, the perfect ring to occupy the spot on that all-important finger.
A few months after my birthday, my dad came home from a visit with my grandma and handed me a gift bag. “Grandma heard that you wanted a diamond ring this year for your birthday, so she sent this.” My grandma famously bought jewelry for all her granddaughters, and she had great taste. I drew in a quick breath of anticipation and flipped the ring box open. The gasp I let out brought my sister running over to look. The ring had diamond chips in two rows, leading to a center cluster of yellow canary diamond chips. It wasn’t an ostentatious display; this ring was spectacular because it was so understated. I fell in love with it immediately, and my sister was envious. “CANARY DIAMONDS,” she shouted, “Grandma has outdone herself!” When I asked my parents for a ring, I never considered that my grandmother might want to weigh in. I certainly didn’t anticipate something so grand; in a few short months I went from having zero diamond rings to now owning two.
Years later, I joined an adult ballet class with my old high school dance company. We were at the age when almost every week, one of my friends would walk into class and announce their engagement. They’d show off their ring or talk about wedding venues, and everyone would listen excitedly. I loved hearing everyone’s good news; I was always happy for them. But after a few of these announcements, I came to the stark realization that I was never jealous. I never thought, “When will it be my turn to get married?” or “Why isn’t that me?” Like most girls, I always assumed I would get married, so this was a surprising development. I spent the next few months in examination mode. If marriage wasn’t a goal that excited me, what was? I didn’t have to look too hard for an answer. When I watched monologues on late night talk shows or awards ceremonies; when I read humor columns; when I heard someone deliver a perfectly written joke— that was what made me jealous. I’d be left thinking, “When is my chance? I know I can write like that, too, so when will it be my turn?”
I knew I had a responsibility to answer to these wishes, so I started online comedy writing classes with Second City Chicago. When the company tour came to town, I went to a show and was smitten. Before long, I knew what I had to do: move to Chicago and get the full experience of taking the classes. I asked my sister if she wanted to move with me, and she was all in. I lived in Chicago for two years, completed the program, and started on the path of taking my writing seriously.
My grandmother passed away last year; many times, during my writing journey, I wondered if her ring was a charm that released me from the worry of domestic endeavors. With canary diamonds secured on my finger, my hands were free to grab for other brass rings. I may not have gotten married, but I still had a ring to show off; one that came with its own set of vows—that I would trust, honor, and obey my true self. People ask me about the ring all the time, and I love to tell the story. In doing so, I keep the vow to honor my grandmother as well.
This article originally appeared in the January/February 2025 issue of (585).
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