I’ll Only Get Married If… (Top 5 Requirements)
Today I awoke inside a state of panic.
I realized suddenly, (after a most pleasant dream fit with a horse and buggy and a fine gentleman beneath a top hat) that while my physical body exists here in the 21st century, my soul may very well be trapped between the yellowed pages of a Colonial novel.
To put it simply, I have grown bored with our reality.
Just when did we slip into an age when the announcement of an engagement– the announcement of FOREVER, is delivered as a basic image of somebody’s hand, met with 200plus tasteless, congratulatory-FaceBook-thumbs-up? Just when did the celebration of marriage move from an honest poetry spoken between husband and wife, into a gaudy hashtag shared amongst friends? (#MeetTheSullivans <—really?!)
This depresses me, regularly.
I have logically deduced from all of this, that the man I am looking for, the man that I will someday marry is neither younger nor older than I– for he is likely already dead, his body long since detoriorating beneath the earth.
This is understandably devastating, and I miss him terribly. He and I existed in a time when romance wasn’t virtual, it was palpable. He courted me, if I remember correctly–certainly never “holla-ed at me”, under any circumstances.
I am in deep mourning, and whether or not I ever marry again will depend wholly upon these 5 things that my future husband will have to bring to the table:
He’ll call me “Darling”: We live in a graceless age. We’ve moved into a generation where women fall weak at the knees for titles like “bae” and “babygirl”, but I don’t want be anyone’s baby-anything. Even the commonality of “babe”, disinterests me. Words like these are a standard, and I am an exception: a woman, first and foremost, and one whose knees might buckle at the whisper of the word “darling”. I can think of nothing more respectful, more utterly romantic than the inscription of darling. Every time I hear it (read: whenever I’m flipping through my Luther Vandross and Eric Clapton records), I am instantly swept away.
He’ll make me feel safe: No fool, I’m not talking about making sure the front door is locked or puffing up your chest if another man looks my way– I can deadbolt a door myself, thank you, and I’m hardly fond of an overdeveloped ego. I am referring instead of a safety to exist. To be Candace P U R E L Y, in the rawest, most honest interpretations of the woman that I am. I modify regularly. The other day I was meditating outside and I lost my breath. I felt a wave of insecurity. I felt suffocated, completely undone in a way that only the unyielding demands of life can sometimes make us feel. For a moment, I was scared to exist–afraid of failure, of imperfection. I am in need of a partner that will not silence these fears, but draw them out, converting them into a dark symphony. To be made to feel safe and comfortable upon the ledge of life which we all teeter, is to be truly loved. We are all complex. I don’t want my legacy to read like some dummy Instagram account. I don’t want people to remember me as eternally happy, falsely beautiful, and painfully average. I represent depth and development. A sweet neuroticism. The delightful ugliness that can be found in every pocket of our experiences.
He’ll know I’m not afraid to leave: How many people do we know that are just in a relationship to prove a point? To show the world “hey look– we made it!” after years of torment and misery, the spark long since faded. These unfortunate souls have forgotten what it is even to be in love–truly, madly…irrevocably. The peak of their relationships are frozen in time, trapped in a Facebook profile pic that they try monthly to recreate. But they aren’t fooling anyone, not even themselves. I am always one foot out the door. I am not the girl who wants a token for “keeping my man” while the rest of the world knows what goes on behind my back, and how much I’ve put up with. I categorically DO NOT want a man to be with me because I never had the self-respect to walk away. That simply will not be my legacy.
He’ll try seriously, to take me seriously: Laughter is medicinal, and it’s about the only thing that will carry me or any person into forever. I once dated a guy briefly who just could not take me seriously when I was angry. Sure– on the surface is was a bit condescending but I’ve an eye for the marvelous, and trust me, it was positively marvelous to be reminded of how fleeting and unnecessary the emotion of anger is. He would look down at me, (my arms crossed, right foot tapping madly in aggravation), and make a great effort not to smirk. To be adored even in moments of blanket frustration, is to be marveled at.
He will teach me verbs: Enrapture, captivate, transport, enchant— THESE are the verbs I’ll suddenly understand. I’ve an affinity for anything I can feel in my soul. This includes love, but is not limited to the less enviable topics of sadness and hurt because pain too, carries an irresistible melody. Ultimately, I have an affinity to feel, and would like someone who never stills that vibration. Dangerous as it may seem, I crave somebody then with an ability to take me down, because the pain I would feel if anything ever happened to him would be immeasurable. Heavy. Cement from the depths of my soul to the tips of my eyelashes.
I’ve no doubt that when I meet my husband, history will end. It will be a terrifyingly beautiful moment with the kind of power to sink the sun.
It will be my most favorite part to rewind my life on.
Over, and over again.