Ring the alarm

I was in the elevator at my office building today, just minding my own business, when I had a revelation...a startling, scary, Oprah-Aha!-moment revelation.

I am old.

Now, before you gripe, allow me to elaborate. I know that being 24.5 years old does not necessarily qualify me as old. It's not even mid-life, and 25 is probably the more appropriate age for the quintessential "quarter-life crisis" that John Mayer sings about. No, I know that I am still qualified as young...if nothing else, young enough to check the 18-24 box for at least four more months.

Even so, my Oprah-Aha!-Jamie-you-are-officially-or-unofficially-old-moment came today when an attractive man walked on to the elevator in my building. He looked roughly my age, perhaps a few years older, was clean cut and had a nice smile. The elevator doors in One Dag Hammarskjold Plaza are fierce, but he barely squeezed on behind me before the doors squished him to his oblivion.

In a matter of milliseconds after the doors began to close, I did something. Something shocking, something horrifying. Something that I've done hundreds of times before, subconsciously of course. I did something that no child, no college student, no immature, happy go lucky, youthful girl would do. Something only an old person would do.

I looked at the cute guy, and I immediately looked at his left hand. The fourth finger - otherwise known as the ring finger - of his left hand, to be exact.

Good thing I did, too, seeing as there was a shiny platinum ring screaming "Sorry, sucker!" wrapped around it. A shiny platinum sign reminding me that I am all alone and that Mrs. Elevator Man is somewhere else in the world at this very moment. Probably in Connecticut. With a 2 carat diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand as well.

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure I've done this before. The "check for the ring" act is as old as wedding rings themselves, and it's just good sense. I mean, really - in the sea of unavailable, ogreish men that is New York City, any smart single woman can rule out an unacceptable candidate in a good two seconds. Slicked back hair, v-neck undershirt and five gold chains: out. Black tights, mascara and ballet shoes over the shoulder: out. Back to point A, obviously, wedding ring: out, out, out. However, it wasn't so much the fact that I noticed or even looked for the wedding ring that alerted me to the fact that I'm nearing the Senior Citizen movie ticket rate. It was the remarkable, lightning bolt speed in which I did it...I seriously don't even think the elevator doors had shut by the time I had gone through the steps of noticing the cute guy to planning our wedding to ruling him out forever.

This, my friends, is why I have come to the firm conclusion that I am old. Regardless of the numbers, I am in an age bracket of married men, and my subconscious has realized that the first thing I need to check for is marital availability. No longer am I worried about who's cute or who's fun or who's starting on the basketball team. It's not even about who's not failing out of college or who has an actual job. Instead, I am concerned with who doesn't have a Mrs. Elevator Man or a Mrs. Salad Line Man or a Mrs. Downtown 6 Train Man waiting for them at home.

To be optimistic, at least the marriage thing has a clearly defined piece of jewelry associated with it. Maybe I can invent a right hand ring that signals guys who are afraid of commitment...


"A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment."
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice