UPFRONT:ALL THE SINGLE Ladies (All The Single Ladies), listen up.
Beyoncé's speaking for you. "If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it," she sings, and uh oh, uh oh, uh oh,it's a pretty catchy tune. I keep breaking into the chorus myself, even as I cringe at the implication. Because not only is it a bit of a U-turn for the Independent Women of the Destiny's Child days – remember when Beyoncé claimed she bought her own diamonds and her own rings, including the rock she was rocking? – but it also seems a little bit insulting to All the Single Ladies (and All The No Longer Single Ladies, too).
I was right there with Beyoncé when she was the voice of all the honeys making money, but now that she’s peddling the notion that a ring is the only expression of love admitted by women eager to be bound to their menfolk forever, I’m less convinced. And c’mon Beyoncé: put a ring on it? A bit depersonalising, that, even if it makes for some fabulous dance moves.
The first time I heard it, I got all riled up at the implication that if I didn’t have a ring on it, it clearly wasn’t passing muster. But then I got engaged.
In my defence, I thought I had just agreed to get married. But it seems by accepting the proposal from the man I’m now to call my fiancé (in the grand tradition of rhyming slang, to be referred to hereafter as my Beyoncé) I had crossed into the limbo twixt single and married, and Become Engaged, where all that matters is that he liked it and put a ring on it.
Except I didn’t want a ring. At least, not a diamond ring. Nothing against pretty sparkly things, but ever since I found out that the reason we all associate diamonds with engagements is that a South African diamond trader got inside our heads, I’ve been less convinced of the connection between rocks and romance.
Turns out that diamonds got a little devalued, due to their turning up in droves as the 20th century kicked off, and the diamondeers got worried about profit margins. So De Beers hijacked journalists, lectured secondary school students, festooned stars with diamonds, and orchestrated the most successful marketing campaign in history to convince the public that diamonds were the only acceptable symbol of betrothal, and that the bigger the rock the bigger the love expressed. And it worked. We liked it so much, we put a ring on it.
If that wasn’t enough of a turn-off, there’s the crass and disturbingly commodifying notion that the ring must reflect the giver’s financial standing. Two months’ salary is the standard, apparently, regardless of financial climate. Don’t even get me started on the issue of blood diamonds. Suffice to say, they’re not this girl’s best friend. Thankfully, my Beyoncé had similar scruples, so he plucked a ring from a flea market stall with which to pop the question, which would have worked perfectly if it hadn’t been eight sizes too big. Granted, I didn’t technically want a ring anyway. But strangely, once I had one, I was damned if I wasn’t going to wear it.
So off I marched to the nearest buzz-you-in, blingorama jewellery emporium, to hand it over to a squinty lady, all powder and pursed lips, who took one look and informed me in tones that were a little less hushed than I might have liked: “That stone is just paste, you know.” I did know, thank you, but I still wanted to wear it, so could it be resized? No it could not, I was told, because it’s Not. Even. Silver. Gasp! And despite all my principles about seedy commercial machinations and where rings should be put, I was suddenly, embarrassingly, gutted.
I wasn’t the only one. My rocklessness left everyone crestfallen. Upon hearing of my engagement, almost every female friend lunged for the telltale finger only to be accosted with the naked truth.
“I didn’t want a diamond ring,” I’d explain over and over again, though it’s
hard to tell someone with a lorry load of bling on her hand why you think diamond engagement rings are overpriced, misguided and misogynist.
It didn’t matter anyway, because nobody was listening. Momentarily deflated by the sight of my diamond-free digit, All The Single Ladies assured
me there must be a rock en route. It didn’t matter how much I loved my tin ring: all they saw was
paste.
I know it’s a tradition, and I admit I’ve even done the hand-grab myself in the past, and ooh-ed convincingly over stones and settings, but mainly because that was what was expected of me. And as I find myself making excuses for the ring I now wear around my neck, I’ve had to face the fact that even this Independent Woman is not entirely immune to the societal mores that surround us.
Which doesn’t mean they can’t be questioned. Beyoncé may claim to speak for All The Single Ladies, but she still doesn’t speak for me. As for All The Single Gentlemen, I’d suggest they ignore dictats from pop divas and diamond traders about what they should do with two months of their hard-earned pay.
If you like it, just be nice to it, I'd say, though it doesn't have quite the same ring. But why do I have the feeling that that's the kind of chorus line that is going to get me into trouble with All The Single Ladies? Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh .. .
fionamccann@irishtimes.com
Róisín Ingle is on maternity leave