I Want To Get Married For All The Wrong Reasons

When I was maybe seven, I went as The Little Mermaid for Halloween. Not in the mermaid outfit; I was Ariel the Bride. Puffed-sleeve white lacy dress (with a white turtleneck under it because it was freezing), sparkly gold princess crown, light blue eyeshadow, and a feeling like I was the prettiest girl in the world. Taught from the beginning that I would one day meet my prince and get married and la-di-dah, I was on my way.

Since then I've begun to question and eventually outright doubt the likelihood that I was ever going to fit that mold. Men were continually disappointing me, and I them. At first I thought it was the men, then I thought it was me, and now, while I allow that both factors played a part, I've come to feel that its a third, much simpler reason: perhaps people aren't meant to be monogamous forever.

Alright (mom), before you have a heart attack, hear me out. I'm not saying its not possible, or that its not right/good. My parents and grandparents, and several other amazing couples I know, have proven that you can, in fact stay together through thick and thin, making the decision to take the good with the bad and ride the ride til the teacups stop spinning. I'm just not sure that route is for me, I'm not sure I'm cut out for that much sacrifice. I like my freedom, I like my space, I like not explaining myself to anyone or considering a significant other's feelings and whereabouts in relation to mine. If that's incredibly selfish, then it supports my point, and I'm going to own all of it, so here it is in black and white: if my life is going to be about anyone, shouldn't it be me, me, me?

Right. But here's the thing. I think the idea of marriage is the most lovely, fairytale notion I ever heard, and there's a bride in me that cries out for it. Despite having the unreasonable, illogical insanity of trying to force two people into a “relationship” of modern standards CLEARLY exemplified in my own graveyard of failed boyfriends, I'll be damned if I don't get misty at the end of every crappy rom-com I surreptitiously watch on Netflix. I'll tell you the God's honest truth that I've seen every Say Yes To The Dress ever aired (except the weird Big Bliss spin off, because no thank you), and buried at the bottom of my desk drawer is an unmarked manilla envelope with the hastily torn-out pages of bridal magazines I couldn't help but save when they were all over my apartment from the fifth (yes, FIFTH) time I was a bridesmaid. It's a sick addiction, I fully admit it. Even in the stretches when I didn't have a serious boyfriend, I still thought about weddings, with a wistful mist of hope.

And its the WORST IDEA I'VE EVER HAD. Why? Ohhh, because I'm all twisted up about why I want it! I am a clearheaded girl with her feet on the ground who can look at all these ads and wedding shows and say “wow, they are marketing geniuses, these people” and “holy cow, the whole idea of marriage is lost in this substanceless, empty, wedding-circus bullshit” and “these brides have lost their minds spending $3,000 on a dress they'll wear one time!” and “how silly, what a joke, what suckers they are!” And still, the idea appeals. But its clear: I want to get married for all the wrong reasons. Well, just two that I can think of. What are they? Oh I'll tell you. I'm dropping the veil here, folks. (Ha HA.)

1) A wedding would be so damn fun.

A Father Daughter Dance to Loggins & Messina. My sister giving an adorable maid of honor speech that makes us both cry. My cousins for a flower girl and junior bridesmaid before they're too big, and they stop looking at me with their big eyes full of admiration. A bridal shower with mimosas because my mother and sister would throw the cutest, classiest damn shower anyone ever saw, and all the ladies in my family together, how fun would that be! To dance with my Dziadziu before his back won't let him dance anymore. To watch him dance with my grandmother the elegant, timeless way they do. To watch my parents do the Hustle and get so happy in each other's arms that you have to stop to watch them. To dance in the arms of my handsome, broad-shouldered forever-man with the same surety that my parents and grandparents have in each other: safe in the solid, simple fact that they decided to be forever and that was that.

To wear white, and “stand before God” relieved that I was doing at least one thing He (my mother) wanted for me. And my grandparents would see it. My, wouldn't that be something.

2) A husband would be damn useful... and maybe really nice.

A man to handle the investments, while I handle the bills. A man to mow the lawn-- a man who makes it possible to HAVE a lawn, and a house on it, if we want one. Someone to sleep next to and feel safe because he's there. Splitting the rent. Someone to put the bugs back outside when they wander in. A mother-in-law. A family-in-law. Babies, maybe? God, a whole other can of worms. Saying “this is my husband.” Calling him “Hubby”. Being arm candy at work events. Being introduced as “my wife”. Listening, being a sounding board, being the trusted opinion because you know him best in the world. Someone to bitch to when the auditions go shitty, and to celebrate with when the callbacks go well. Someone to hold your hand, and take the trash out, and like your cooking. Someone to pick up toilet paper on the way home when we're out. To lay on and stroke while we laugh at Jimmy Fallon on our couch. Calling things “ours”. Saying “we”. Someone in the rocker next to mine, when the show's all over. That one person who bears witness to your life, and whose life to which you are entrusted to bear witness.

And I guess that's the trouble. All the rosy parts come at a cost. And I'm just a fairytale kind of girl, I guess. I spend so much struggle on my career that to have another arena of my life that requires massive amounts of time, patience, work and sacrifice... well, I guess it just seems like too high a price.

Or... Or I haven't met the man who makes me want to do it yet. I guess we'll see.