My mother is dropping hints about marriage and tiny humans, and I can feel my uterus revolting in horror. It started with an innocent You know, when I was your age… followed by reminiscing about her first hubby at the ripe age of 20-something (read: too young), and how she can’t wait to spoil her hypothetical grandchildren. How someday I’ll find “the one” and stop replying to these hopes and dreams with emojis of babies surrounded by fire.
Somehow she’s under the impression I moved to this cow town to start accruing a dowry. She must tune out our phone calls about my nutritious & self-sufficient popsicle dinners and how the like of my life is too far away to do any damage other than virtual bangin’. I don’t have the heart to tell her the last serious conversation I had about procreating with a partner was along the lines of
“Do you need a ride to Walgreens?”
“Nah, I’ll take care of it.”
after the previous night’s rubber malfunction.
My average dating attention span is two to three months. Just enough time for butterflies and doing the deed, but just shy of real, honest to God commitment/feelings/wtf-are-we-doing-ness. Sticking with one dude for all eternity so he can subsequently stick me and continue the circle of life is an entirely foreign concept.
I get that as a child of divorce I wasn’t raised with a lot of confidence in the “till death do us part” spiel. The broken family/oh god, mom’s dating another guy she found at the carwash/where am I supposed to spend the holidays bull can definitely alter a young lady’s impression on matrimony. I know I didn’t have many role models rooting for the lifelong monogamy thing. I can only think of one friend whose parents are actually still in love, and spending time with them is like observing a rare and exotic creature at the zoo.
But even witnessing other people’s happy, functional relationships doesn’t convince me of a happily ever after in my future. Sure, I’m a sucker for a cheesy rom-com, and I would love to have someone around at 85 to adoringly cater to my spastic senile bodily functions, but I can’t imagine that person being someone I met in my twenties or thirties. If anything it’ll probably be some grandpa from bingo who thought the way I handled my cane was sexy as fuq. Forever is a scary long time. To think I could find a guy at 26 that I wouldn’t mind snoring next to for 75 more years is insane. I don’t care what kind of deity you do or don’t believe in—if we’re all allotted one soul mate in a world populated with seven billion people, that’s a pretty shitty system (even if you knock off a few billion to account for the appropriate sexual orientation/make sure it’s not a jailbait situation, that’s still a lot of freaking fish).
Yesterday at work I spent 5+ hours entering wedding photographer contact info into a spreadsheet. Page after page of pastel-hued, googly eyed newly weds laughing into the sunset—it was like Pinterest barfed all over my computer. And while I’m sorting through all these sickeningly precious photos, half of me is thinking Yum, cake, and the other half is wondering how many of these men and women are going to end up cheating with someone from the bridal party. Touching, I know.
I realize I sound bitter and destined to be a lonely cat lady. But A. Fuck felines, and B. I think a little dose of realism is healthy. I don’t have the slightest clue how to snag a husband. But I know there’s more than one person out there that I could fall madly, deeply, nauseatingly in love with, and I intend to find those people. I plan to lead a life filled with relationships that yes, may have expiration dates, but will run their course as long as I’m happy (if you’ve ever tried outdated milk, you’ll agree forcing the issue is never worth it).
I’m not trying to discount those high school sweethearts whose side-by-side tombstones read “I love you →” and “← I love you mostest.” Really, kudos to them. I’m just not sure if that’s for me. Maybe down the road I’ll have a change of heart, but for the foreseeable future I don’t mind leaving paperwork out of my love life, thanks. Don’t ask me where rings or infants fall into this seemingly polygamous scheme of mine. All I know is I’m going to wear pretty dresses and eat cake every day of my life, and maybe find a few people who don’t mind if the dresses aren’t white or if I’m getting fat. Sounds like every little girl’s fantasy to me.