I Ain't Sayin She a Gold-Digger. Oh Wait. Yeah I Am.

As someone writing her Master's thesis on post-college marriage mania (a phrase I made up, thankyouverymuch), I can't help but be attuned to the relationship-status changes on Facebook from "In a Relationship" to "Engaged."

Another young woman in my network recently got herself ringed. Like many of the newly-fianced I see, she is younger than me. (My 10th grade self would not be pleased. A couple weeks ago, I stumbled upon an entry in my diary in which I wrote, to my future self, not to worry about the stupid boy I had a crush on because when I'm twenty-five, "I will have a gorgeous fiance." Nope.)

I've asked the question many times--why are these girls getting married at 23/24/25? (The religious reasons, I understand. I'm talking about the girls who have clearly lost their viriginty some time ago.) I typically look at the gal's photos to get some clues. Sometimes I see vacations to tropical locales. Sometimes there are private planes. Diamonds the size of dimes. Lacoste polos. Lots of Ralph Lauren. The girl is typically gorgeous. The guy is so-so at best. This is where my stomach gets queasy.

These girls are gold-diggers, whether they want to admit it or not.

Call my attitude bitter, bitchy, whatever. But, as someone who has been on the other side, someone who has been called a gold-digger (by her own sorority sisters, mind you), I feel like this is my terrain.

I've done the private plane thing. The VIP, field-access, secret-entrance, back-door, special-pass-only, front-of-the-line, only-this-key-gets-you-in, open-sesame song and dance. It gets old. Saying this isn't a stab at the boyfriend who allowed me to learn this lesson, it's just something I know to be true. Money can't buy me love. When you marry a man for his--or his parents'--money, (and I'm not calling anyone out specifically, just talking about this as an idea), money is what you get. For some people, that's enough.

Private planes don't cultivate passion. Vacation homes don't get me hot. Diamond rings don't give me butterflies. It's only the man himself who can electrify your every cell with one brush of his lips on your collarbone, one word whispered in your ear, one look.

This is one more thing I've learned in my twenty-five years: If I had to choose, I would rather simply screw a guy I was crazy about than be stuck married to a rich dude with the sexual capacity of a snail.

Just sayin.