I can recall being aged around 24 and telling my grandmother that I wasn't certain I ever wanted to marry. She had not, until that point, even considered that I wasn't 'looking' for a husband. She had just assumed I hadn't been able to find one. My not wanting to get married was inconceivable to her.
I was aged 30 when I did marry my husband, and despite the fact that I had been perfectly happy until then, several older female members of my family still heaved huge sighs of relief that I was finally 'off the shelf'.
They had apparently been worried that I had failed to attract a husband by the ripe old age of 29, and had watched in horror as I pursued a career and spent my spent my spare time reading, writing, and generally doing nothing to improve my 'prospects'.
After fielding the many subtle hints about 'the biological clock ticking', I stunned the thronging blue-rinse brigade at our wedding by announcing that I had absolutely no intention of giving up my job right away to begin furious work on spawning, and my grandmother had to fan herself and sit down when I said that I handled all of our financial business.
Myself (and my equally determined older sister) were regarded as a minor embarrassment when held up against our numerous female cousins who had achieved the pinnacle of womanly success by scoring a gold band and an extra 'r' in their formal title of address whilst still young enough to be fooled.
My husband, however, the unlikely hero, was very good about all of this 'expiration date' business. As he pointed out, much to my grandmothers delight, he need not worry that his wife was already 30 because she 'has her grandmothers good genes'.