Ladies, we need to talk about something.

I’m only talking to the women about my age — teens to twentysomethings to thirty-ish — and I have only one question:

Why are you so obsessed with getting married?

Seriously. Why is this your main objective in life? Why are you forcing your boyfriend to propose? Why are you a nightmare and the only thing that will calm you down is a shiny object?

I keep talking to friends who talk about that their only want, their absolute only desire is an engagement ring. What does Susie want for her birthday? Just a ring. Just for her boyfriend to propose, already. It’s been two years and all of her friends are getting married! Hurry up, Steve!

Here’s how I can spot you: first, you’ll post a congratulatory Facebook status tagging a close friend and her new fiance congratulating them on their engagement and how you’re just sooooooo thrilled about their love. Repeat several times for all of your friends who dare to get engaged before you. Bonus crazy points if you post an Instagram of someone else’s engagement that you were not at or involved in.

Next, you’ll post an Instagram at Christmas, with your boyfriend and a family member’s baby. The caption will have the word “family” in it, even though this man isn’t your family. Your actual family will comment on just how great you two are together and how he’ll make such a great dad! You’ll throw this back at him in a drunk argument in the bar when we’re trying to have a nice friends night out.

Then, when you FINALLY get engaged, the picture of the ring will have your wedding hashtags on it already. Not just something generic like #ISaidYes, but something punny that combines both of your last names. Bonus points if you pulled it from the wedding hashtag note in your iPhone you’ve been saving.

*Editor’s note: come up with a better caption than so-and-so, party of two. I will lose my goddamn mind if I see one more wedding post with that hashtag. Hire a fucking freelance copywriter and call it a day.

You girls aren’t just bridezillas — you’re Al-Bride-a. Yeah, you’re an international terror cell made up of garters and flower arrangements and calligraphy on envelopes. You don’t even care who gives you the ring, you just want to terrorize some stupid lug into committing to you forever.

Why are so many women measuring their worth in carats?

If I want a Tiffany ring, I will walk to the bottom floor of my office building and max out my credit card. I will put it on my left hand and remember I am a fucking goddess who does not need a man to feel worth.

What’s even worse than Al-Bride-a is their mothers, aunts, sisters, friends — hell, society at large — that asks, “WHEN ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED!?” Like it’s fucking 1952 and we’re spinsters if we’re not married at 25. As if I need to change my last name to be worthy of…I don’t know… happiness? Fulfillment?

When I first met my boyfriend, like, first first started dating him, a friend of the family asked a family member of mine if they thought he would be “THE ONE” for me. Nevermind that I had only met him months before that, was he it? I was 24, better get a move on! I didn’t even know if he liked chocolate or caramel sauce on his ice cream. OR LIKE MORE IMPORTANTLY IF HE’S, OH I DON’T KNOW FUCKING RESPONSIBLE WITH MONEY OR IN HEAPS OF CREDIT CARD DEBT OR A GODDAMN TERRORIST. I barely knew this person, but already people had entered me into a lifetime commitment with him.

So many of you want your “special day” so you can be a fairy fucking princess special snowflake and put on a white dress like 72 hours earlier your hand wasn’t in a male stripper’s pants in Atlantic City.

And I feel like people forget — this is a legally binding lifetime commitment. There is shit after your “special day”, including but not limited to determining if you are that person’s power of attorney, being responsible for their student loans if they die, and dealing with dividing your assets if the person you literally forced into the union cheats on you with his secretary, who like, gets him and doesn’t force him to take out the trash.

I am so much more than a piece of jewelry on my left hand, a white dress, a flower arrangement. I can have all of those things tomorrow, and force the same arbitrary meaning upon them all of these brides have forced upon their weddings. My daughter, if I have one, will be raised with the same morals I was: travel. see the world. make mistakes. learn from them, and then accidentally make them again. Take the man you’re with, multiply him by 1 million and if you still think you can deal with him, marry him. Or don’t. It’s not necessary.