Impending nuptials have a way of seeping into the psyche of the parental layer of your inner circle. I get asked if I’ve found someone, if I’m talking to anyone new, if I’m “on the apps.” This, coming from your friend’s relatives, is less awkward than you’d imagine. It is rooted in good intentions but, time after time, it does weigh on you.
The accidental, additional pressure is intensified because I think about it too. I contemplate if my gut shouldn’t be trusted when I feel this match isn’t mine, if I wasted too many nights not making it my active mission to find my boo, if I’ve been doing it all wrong from the start. But you’re not allowed to voice concern on this search yourself because you’re a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man. And yet, those around you interfere and worry for you because you’re a strong, independent woman who, god forbid, don’t need no man.
The life I am proud of is like a case of beer with one bottle missing. How do you find that person that fits in with all the other bottles of your life? I have been assembling my crate for three decades. If I’m to make room for another bottle to complete my set, it needs to be a Limited Edition 200th Anniversary Guinness. I don’t actually care much for beer but the metaphor sticks: in order to accommodate their existence in the case that is your life, it needs to bring added value to your entire collection. I have been told that seeking this obscure Guinness is expecting too much. Are you destined to do it alone and fill that void with bubblewrap instead? Isn’t it still a void if filling it with an empty Corona doesn’t really make your box fuller in effect? Can you tell I’m working on a shipment of alcohol?
“You’re too picky. You’re too smart. Your standards are too high. You need to readjust your expectations. You’re picking crappy suitors. You’re not trying. You’re trying too hard. You need to put yourself out there. You need to stop and focus on yourself. You’ve got time. Stop thinking about it and it’ll happen. Aslan ma fi shabeb bil balad.”
I wonder about this gap because I’d like to buy the dual-pack of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for two. If I excise this wondering and assume that I’m destined for one box of Cheerios for as long as I walk this earth, have I carved out a vital organ from my torso? Does it mean I have one less badge from the girl scout sash of what I’ve accomplished? Does it affect the measurement of how much I’ve lived?
I want someone who knows buying throw pillows “to put on the guest bed” actually means they’re for building a sturdy fort on the balcony. I want to find the stabilizing Karen to my off-balance Hank Moody. I want to find my complementary dork and I’m not denying that. I want to share my porch swing but I’m not willing to strike a Faustian bargain in order to find a mate.
It has led me to this thought: it may not be in the cards for me. It could be that I’m supposed to be alone. I don’t say it as a cry for pity or from a feeling of running out of time as a result of turning 30, that societal deadline of expected self-establishment. I don’t say it out of fear of being the only name on all the wedding invitations to come. Accepting this as my possible status quo from now on is healthier than wondering if something is missing whenever a friend’s mother asks if I’m still single. Right now, I am alone.
Except I’m not.
My case is pretty full, lhamdilla, and I’ve always liked bubblewrap.