In the spirit of the recent rash of “MRS” degree-related articles in the national news–as well as right here at TSM–I thought I’d share some of my hard-earned knowledge on the subject. First, I want to preface this by disclosing some relevant information: I’m an alumna.
That’s right ladies, I’m (mostly) a full-fledged member of the mysterious society that lurks just outside the hallowed walls of the chapter room. But, I also have a younger brother who is still in college and my family lives down the street from a large university in Texas. Despite what you may think, I’m actually young–as in, I haven’t hit 30 yet–and I remain intimately acquainted with campus goings-on.
So here’s the scoop on this ridiculous MRS business. Like everything else in life, if you set out to do something as nebulous as snagging yourself a husband, you’re likely going to wind up with one you don’t like. It’s kind of like hunting for the perfect white T-shirt; it’s best to let it find you.
Before my Twitter starts blowing up with newly betrothed sophomores who think I’m an old, ugly, single bitch, I feel it’s only fair to acknowledge that I am, in fact, engaged. However, the manner in which my fiancé and I arrived in this situation of pre-matrimonial bliss did not include any ultimatums or trickery on my behalf. It was actually an accident, and we met our senior year at the Fiji Olympics.
Prior to that, my dating life was a hot mess, and I was involved with all these stereotypical dudes at some point: the mama’s boy, the dumbass, the stoner, the dickhead, the pretentious older guy. In all honesty, marriage wasn’t even on my radar until my first candle pass sometime sophomore year and even then I almost suffocated trying to stifle laughter at how deadly serious this event was.
Trust me on this one, girls. Have you met The One? Maybe you already married The One. Rock on. But if wedding dresses only exist to populate your Pinterest boards, I say just keep it that way. After all, you wouldn’t buy just any white t-shirt, and t-shirts don’t leave dirty boxers all over the house. Just sayin’.