If I had a nickel for all the down-home wisdom imparted to me by my parents and grandmother over the years, I'd never have to work another day in my life. Of course, I suspect that the nice folks at Bank of America Home Mortgage and the utility companies might balk at receiving their monthly dues one nickel at a time, so perhaps it is best that my family merely proffered advice instead of currency. Beyond the standard warnings about stranger danger, not giving away the milk for free (side note: is it any wonder that so many young women suffer from eating disorders? Our parents literally compared us to cattle in an effort to keep us chaste!), and the lifelong fear that my face might freeze that way, my family offered up another ominous piece of wisdom, couched in the form of a surgeon general's warning label. "Be careful what you wish for, Princess. You just might get it!"
For many, many years, how I wished that were true! I wished for a puppy. I got a baby brother (and yes, he blogs, too. Please note that I am the funny one, he is the smart one.) Not quite what I wished for but ultimately, a much better deal. I wished I could be beautiful. I got acne, braces, and a scoliosis diagnosis. For the record, curvature of the spine = not beautiful. I wished for Peter O. to fall madly in love with me. Instead, he impregnated his high school girlfriend during our senior year and married her. (And I hear they lived happily ever, defying the odds. Crazy!) I wished I could be a ballerina like Coco from Fame and begged for dance lessons. In a private conference with my parents, the proprietor of the dance school I attended told my parents not to waste any more money on dance lessons for their clumsy daughter. I could go on but I think you get the idea. I spent 30+ years being careful about what I wished for, and let me be clear . . . it didn't make a lick of difference.
I have always been a superstitious kind of gal. Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight . . . I've wished on you! Wishing wells? Yup. Trevai Fountain? Absofrickinglutely. Loose eyelashes, birthday candles, fortune cookies. . affirmative. As a kid, it was a special treat to go out for a family meal at Perkins Restaurant – not because of the excellent silver dollar pancakes accompanied by a delicious smorgasbord of syrups – but because they had a wishing well. The Perkins wishing well never disappointed, either. Every time I made a wish, I reached inside that well and fished out some useless plastic trinket, made in China or some other "emerging" nation, and played with it until it inevitably broke, requiring another family meal to Perkins.
About a year ago, this princess made another wish. I wished for a prince. I wasn't looking for a white horse, a palace, or glass slippers. (For the record, I would accept any and all of these, but they certainly aren't prerequisites.) I wanted a partner – someone to share my thoughts, feelings, and dreams with; someone to cuddle with on the couch after a long day; someone to help me lift heavy objects; someone who I could share not only a meal with but also share my life with. And under the close supervision of an elf-therapist, I began kissing frogs in my quest to find Prince Charming.
I knew I'd have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince. This fact was confirmed by the elf-therapist. While some puritans might consider seven frogs a lot, my theory is that until I run out of fingers to count on, we're doing okay. So, I kissed seven frogs and then I met Suitor #1. Sure, he violated many of my dating commandments, but at the end of the day, he was tall, dark, handsome, and in possession of a full set of teeth, a job, and a full head of hair, so I overlooked some of the pre-existing conditions that normally would have been knockout factors. We went on a couple of dates. We laughed. We ate. We kissed. And . . . lo and behold . . . neither of us projectile vomited or ran screaming from the room. So we kissed some more.
Fast forward and suddenly, we've been together for 11 weeks. He says the "l" word and calls me his girlfriend. I've met the tadpoles. He's seen me without makeup on. I've seen him throw up. He's met my brother and some of my friends. But boys and girls . . . suddenly, the honeymoon is over and our true colors are coming out. He's disappointed in my undomesticated nature. While I am housetrained (barely), I refuse to cook, my standards of cleanliness are dubious at best, and he has wondered aloud if I have any other shirts. (This musing occurred after I wore the same t-shirt two days in a row. It didn't stink so I didn't see a problem with it.) We've shared all our witty "get to know you" stories and now our conversations revolve around, "So, how was your day?" In a nutshell, we're gone from infatuation and intrigue to something else.
When I was single, all I wanted was to find a prince, couple up, and live happily ever after. Now that I'm coupled up, I miss the independence of my single life. I'm not used to checking in with someone and reporting on my comings and goings. It's weird to talk on the phone to the same person every single night. I'm running out of things to say! I'm not used to having to consider someone else's feelings and insecurities and idiosyncrasies anymore. In my single life, if I wanted to stay out all night, I could. If a friend came over and drank too much, it was no problem to have him crash on the couch. If I wanted some quiet time, I just stopped answering the phone. I didn't have to apologize for being too slow to respond to a text or an email or a voicemail. I did my thing, tried to be a good friend, good sister, good dog-owner, good daughter, good employee . . . and although sometimes I was lonely, life was good. For the first time in my 30+ (and we don't need to count any higher than that, thank you very much) odd years of life, I finally felt comfortable, secure, and good with just plain being me.
Now that I'm coupled up, I can't help but wonder . . . should I have been careful what I wished for? As I try to be a good girlfriend and good partner, whatever that means, I worry that I've gotten into the Delorean time machine and regressed to pre-therapy princess. I notice similarities between Suitor #1 and the infamous Mr. Wrong. I notice the differences, too – but there are enough similarities that it makes me nervous. I catch myself breaking promises I've made – to my friends, to my family, and to myself, just to avoid arguing with Suitor #1. He's planning our future together and all I can think about is Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. Can I be happy with someone who doesn't read books? Who doesn't have cable TV? On the flip side, how can I not want everything that Suitor #1 is offering? He loves me – just the way that I am. Do I make him crazy? Hell, yes. But in spite of that, he wants to share my life. He doesn't complain if I want to watch a chick flick – and then fall asleep 10 minutes into the movie. He is happy to come with me to pick up groceries or dog food. I drooled on him (by accident) and he didn't freak out and make me have his couch cleaned. And he's even willing to come to church with me – something I've wanted in a partner for as long as I can remember.
Maybe I'm less of a princess and more of a screw-up than the elf-therapist and I originally thought . . . Time – and several more $35 copayments – will tell. Stay tuned for more.
© 2010 Princess D
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