It’s an interesting thing to read through one’s blog archives, which is what I’ve been doing lately. It’s a little embarrassing too (yikes), but mostly it’s just interesting to see who I’ve become–to compare the person I am now to the person I was a few years ago. So much has happened. So much has changed since I first started blogging.
Of particular interest to me has been to read my attitude toward dating/love/marriage/men. How I saw it then. How I see it today.
Over the last year, I’ve formulated some conclusions regarding this aspect of my life–conclusions that have brought … peace, I suppose. Although that sounds a little dramatic, even for me.
The first conclusion was more a “stroke of inspiration” that came as I was sitting on the dock one evening in my backyard in Florida (back when I was living in Florida). I’m not even sure what I was thinking about to invite its entrance, but I know it came from God. I know what those thoughts feel like and this was one of them.
“It’s not your fault that you’re not married,” He told me.
I’ve had enough conversations with enough single friends to know that many of us quietly hold the belief that it’s our fault we’re not married. That for whatever reason–whether we did something, or didn’t do something, or weren’t enough, or were too much–we are responsible, in some way, for our lack of husband.
Too opinionated. Too confident. Too educated. Too successful. Too overweight. Too old. Not well-read enough. Not dumb enough. Not flirty enough. Not fashionable enough. Or perhaps it was that time when I was making some mistakes in my life so I possibly missed a spiritual prompting to go there, sit here, make eye contact with that guy. Too. Too. Too. Not. Not. Not.
But all of that is bull shit (yes, I said it).
It is not my fault that I’m not married. I didn’t do something wrong. I didn’t “miss” a “blessing.” And there is absolutely nothing, nothing, unmarryable about me (or you, for that matter)–be it physical, emotional, spiritual, or intellectual.
Multiple people have asked me, “How are you not married yet?!” with this sort of mix of incredulity and love/adoration that is, I think, supposed to make me feel good because it’s sort of a compliment, except it’s also sort of not. Because what you’re also saying with that question, is, “What’s wrong with you?” And I’ve never known how to answer. Until now.
I’m not married because I’ve not met anyone I wanted to marry (sans those four fellas, three of whom I was so wrong about and am so glad I didn’t snag) and I’ve also not met anyone who wanted to marry me. It has nothing to do with my face, or my thighs, or my opinions, or the fact that I don’t want to change my last name, or that I never watch the State of the Union, or that I would hands down choose the N’Sync Pandora station over NPR. I am not married because my life’s path has not led to marriage. Which leads me to my next conclusion.
I am living Plan A.
For so long, I’ve felt like I was living plan B and then C and then W. That because my plans–the plans I’ve been revising again and again, year after year–didn’t work out, I was living some alternate version of my “real” life. Certainly this wasn’t how my life was supposed to go, was it?
But yes. This is exactly how it is supposed to go. I am living Plan A. And it’s freaking awesome. Oh my gosh, yes, I wish I had someone to share this life with. Yes, I’m lonely. But holy crap. I know, and continue to meet, the most incredible people. I have a kick ass career. I have an adorable apartment (did I tell you I moved to Denver?). I am bright and intelligent and interesting and totally gorgeous just as I am, thankyouverymuch. This–my life–is an unexpected adventure, and a crazy one at that. But in short, it’s amazing.
Which leads me to Conclusion 3: I am totally and completely okay with the possibility of not getting married. (Mostly.)
I haven’t given up. In fact, I’m trying harder than I ever have to figure this dating thing out this year and find my forever. But at the end of the day, it’s okay if it doesn’t happen. I know how to do this life on my own. It’s not easy. Oh my gosh, it’s not easy. But. I can move to a new city full of strangers all by myself having driven my U-Haul across a mountain pass alone. I can do my own taxes. I can pay my own bills. I can work a full-time job and maintain a home and feed myself. I can fix the broken drawer in my kitchen and hang my own curtains and build my own shelves. I can keep up on my automobile maintenance and find the insurance and (usually) remember the registration. I have close and trusted friends I can talk through things with. When I need physical touch, I make an appointment with Jay, my delicious and dread-locked massage therapist, who gives me a right good rub down (yes, Jay, right there on those glutes, thankyakindly). I buy myself flowers every week. I mean, I’ve got this. I just … you just figure out how to survive. And then you begin to thrive. And I’m okay. It’s okay. (Mostly.)
Except when it’s not. But then I just try and remember. This is Plan A. And it’s not my fault.