The Sun-Herald

Why we girls aren't man enough to propose

This Friday, the 29th of February, is the once-every-four-years day on which women traditionally have been allowed to propose marriage to their tardy men.

I have a couple of girlfriends who really should take advantage of the Leap Year thing, and Jess is one of them. She's a woman in control; at work, she manages armies of staff; off duty, she captains her netball team; and in love, she's never been afraid to say exactly what she wants. Except when it comes to popping the question to her partner of six years.
"It's excruciating," she says. "I want to take charge. But all I can do is drop hints."
It's the first time this high-powered A-type has waited for anything, yet she's trying to do so as demurely as a Jane Austen heroine.
"Do it," I urge when the girls gather for weekly wines. "It's Leap Year. You're allowed."
Jess looks scandalised, as do all the other girls. It's bizarre. The toughest proposals - business, creative, indecent, even - never daunt this savvy, professional bunch, but we still prefer to leave the marriage ones to men.
I know women who demand pay rises worth more than my house, but baulk at even nudging their partners towards marriage. We've learned to say what we want in bed, in the office, in the car salesroom. And yet we prefer to passively wait for our men to make honest women of us.
Which would be fine, if we weren't so used to calling the shots elsewhere. But it's tough to let go for women like Jess, whose diary reads like one long military directive. She hates not knowing the exact moment her bloke will close the deal. The control freak in her wants to have a timeframe for setting in motion the heavy machinery of large-scale wedding organization. For now, though, she's stuck in helpless limbo. So why can't she just ask him?
I check out some experts, but find little insight aside from lame hints on proposing for Leap Year bachelorettes. "Make sure the answer is going to be yes," suggests online agony aunt Jenny Colgan. Or: "Wait till his team wins a big game." But here's the best: "Don't get down on one knee, especially if you're in stilettos. Women rarely look good in this position." (My unreconstructed male friends think differently, but I'll spare you their lewd observations.)
Another friend admits she is seriously considering proposing to her boyfriend on Friday. "I might ask his mum for permission," she says. "How feminist would that be?" She admits the ring is a problem. "I can't present him with that," she says. "So maybe a watch. Or a cigarette lighter ..."
I ask her if he'll be pleased. "I think so," she says. "But I guess I could be stealing his thunder. I know he'd deliver a lovely proposal himself. Oh dear. Maybe I should just let him do it..." I leave her looking perturbed.
Eventually, Jess reveals something. "If I ask him," she says, "how will I be completely, totally sure he really wanted to get married? Everyone knows what I'm like. They'll all think I just bullied him into it. Maybe it would be true."
And there it is - the funny, frail little truth at the heart of all this confusion. We want to know we're loved, but there are so few ways left for men to prove it. We don't need their money, their brawn or their protection, and we definitely don't need to marry them. And so the engagement ring, free of all its old economic, pragmatic and social agendas, has become one of the few remaining symbols of pure love. Who can blame us for holding out for that?
Meanwhile, I'm considering popping the question to every man I meet, all day on Friday. Why? Apparently, Leap Year tradition demands that all rejections must be accompanied by the gift of a silk dress. If I start early in the morning I could have one hell of a wardrobe by nightfall.