麻煩各位幫一幫我翻譯一篇英文hw , thx!!!!

ON the Valentine’s Day when Shirley got engaged, Lois called Myrna,
Myrna called Sharon and Sharon called me. There was shrieking from house
to house, and spirited conjecture about the size and shape of the engagement
ring.There was also an icy anxiety that clamped down right over each of our
presumably warm and delighted hearts that February 14th: “When will it be my turn?” was the question too terrifying to utter aloud. “When will I be
chosen?”On the night Shirley got engaged, we were all, incidentally, 20
years old.Getting chosen was the ultimate 1950s issue. And how bizarre that
decades
later, the memory of that anxious, ragged waiting-to-be-picked time can still
make my hands clammy.
One never forgets. Not the panic. Not the sense of helplessness. Not the
shameful jealousy when friends like Shirley caught the brass ring — or, more precisely, the white-gold one with the solitaire setting — and triumphantly
left our ranks. For those of us who came of age in the 1950s, marriage was
the finish line.
In 1956, my freshman year at the University of Pennsylvania, an earnest
teaching assistant had assigned the quintessential freshman essay: “What I
Hope to Accomplish Here.” So I told him. I wrote unabashedly about the
search for a husband.
I went on in that essay to explain how the quarry I would seek through the ivy would deliver me from loneliness and panic and might even “pin” me with a fraternity pin, typically sported on the left breast, maybe by my sophomore
year. We would live in a little white house with a picket fence and I’d wear
an apron.