Before University started, and in a happy, blissful, long-term relationship, I had my life plan sorted. I wanted to be engaged by the time I was 23, married by the time I was 25 and to have my first child at 27. I knew where I wanted to get married, I knew the style of my wedding dress and I had the cake already picked out. The boy I was in the relationship with wanted the exact same thing, just with my friend, not me.
Now, I’ve welcomed the realm that is exclusive to the commit-a-phobes.
In this wonderful realm, there is no mention of marriage, children or even relationships. There is a great discussion of cake, vodka and the boys who are just our ‘friends’. This is the place I am most comfortable. The place in which I only need to shave my legs on a Friday night in hope of getting lucky, can crawl into a double bed and not worry about the morning breath the day after and most importantly, I can eat my weekly calorie allowance in a mere few hours with a helping hand of an Italian banquet of the Dominoes variety.
I’d accepted this. I was happy.
That was until I met Julie*.
Julie is in a relationship – and more disbelieving, she’s happy.
Actually happy. Butterflies in her stomach kind of happy. Dancing on air sort of happy. Infectiously happy. She smiles when she says her boyfriend’s name, she misses him when he’s not there and she talks about him constantly. Then she mentioned the dreaded ‘m’ word. Marriage. It was the final straw. Through heart palpations, a desire to flee to the nearest door and a fight against drowning my sorrows in a bath of vodka, I asked her why. Why would you even consider marriage?
And she said, “when you know, you just know.”
Well, I definitely don’t know.
Apparently, I’m battling against statistics now that I’m in third year and I’m yet to meet my future husband. I’d like to find someone who can be trusted to sit with my packet of hobnobs, and not steal one. If any of you know of this bachelor, let me know.
Anonymous
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