Last night, I dreamt about getting married. My (late) mother was there. I wore green. The groom didn’t show up until after the ceremony, but somehow it was all still legal. We then went on a cruise ship that launched itself from a mountain somehow (like a cross between a roller-coaster and something out of 2012, but in the Scottish Highlands, which would never support such a boat. I sensed something else was amiss, though, seeing as no one seemed surprised that the groom had nothing to do with the planning. He was just there. Eventually.
When I was about 12 years old, one of my friends told me she could picture me with children, but not with a husband. Sounds harsh, right? I grew up in a single parent family, with a mother, whom I take after in a million ways, and who didn’t seek out another husband, instead focussing on her kids almost 100%, so it kind of makes sense, but it stung then, and it kind of stings now, 22 years later, when almost all of my childhood friends are married/partnered and/or sprogged up and I show no signs of a) growing up and b) finding anyone to share a life with.
My feminist brain thinks this should be fine. I am fine. A bit lonely, but fine. A bit envious of people who have found their soul mates, if such a thing exists, or just solid, awesome partners, if it doesn’t, but fine. A little annoyed about how invites drop off when you don’t have dates to bring, but being the Bridget at a party doesn’t appeal either, so fine. And not actually bitter about their happiness. Really. I am fine.
At the same time, the envy creeps in often. I’m pretty awesome too, so why can’t I find someone? Why do I still care that, aged 12, someone predicted that I wouldn’t find myself a man? I don’t even know. I’m a mess in many ways, but more or less self-sufficient. Is that the problem? Or is it that dating holds 100% no interest for me, and falling for friends has resulted in nothing but my own heartache. Mr. Right, if such a thing exists, isn’t just going to show up on my doorstep (OR IS HE), but he didn’t show up at either of my universities, at any of my workplaces, or anywhere else that other people seem to meet their partners. I mean, randoms don’t even hit on me at bars, save for a few droolingly drunk old men. Perhaps that’s because I tend to have my Kindle with me? Or because my subconscious fuck off-fu is that strong?
And I know it shouldn’t matter. I read that long piece in The Atlantic. But no woman is an island either, right? Or are they? If traditional marriage isn’t the answer anymore (though it’s still damned appealing – apologies to more radical friends), what is?
As for the kids issue, I always said I’d adopt age 35 if I hadn’t found a partner to have children with. Hahahhahaha. Any agency would throw my application into the sea at this point (the cinematorium gig is not terribly lucrative and I’m not hot shit on, y’know, folding laundry), anyway, so the kids question will have to be settled in future. The far away future. But not too far. Fuck.
In other news, we are in the middle of our first snow of the season. I am not putting my bike away, though. This’ll disappear in a day or two.