As a little girl, I never dreamed about being a bride. I didn’t fantasize about wearing an elaborate white (beige) dress with a long train. I didn’t hum duuum-duuuum-du-DUUM while holding mock weddings for Barbie, Ken and friends. And, I certainly never believed in “Mr. Right.”
In fact, I have spent much of my life hating men and viewing marriage as a conformist and stifling ritual at its best, and a huge mistake at its worst. My cynical view of this so-called sacred bond between two people is probably thanks to my deadbeat father who married and divorced multiple times during my childhood (and before and after). Watching his numerous dysfunctional relationships crumble (aKa go down in a heap of twisted wreckage and burning flames), I remember thinking: “Why get married? Just makes it harder to leave when that time comes.”
The reason I am writing all this is that Jack recently divulged his plan to propose to me sometime in the near future. This is not the first time he brought up the subject. Last time I threatened to kick him in the teeth.
Jack may not be “Mr. Right.” He’s certainly not perfect. I’m certainly not either. I love him. He’s by best friend. We live together and share everything. Why screw that up with marriage?
What is marriage? I want to get a master’s degree, dance all night long, travel the world and eventually move to Central America. Can married women do that? Would I have to take his name? Would I hyphenate? No, that’s tacky. I’d be Mara Low. I’d have to get a new license, passport, etc. Would we have to put all our finances together? I don’t want to. He’s not great with money. I don’t want kids. I don’t want a dog. Would his tolerance for my insanity wane? Would sex be different? Would he suddenly become jealous? Would I?
So many questions….