I'm flitting about the kitchen, dicing pattypan and summer squashes while the couscous cooks. I head over to the cupboard to grab a few spices, before moving on to cucumber and tomato. I love creating a dish out of bits and pieces of recipes and whatever ingredients I have on hand.There's a rhythm when I'm in the kitchen, an unhurried calm settles over me. My thoughts are free to roam and wander.
Which is perhaps why it hits me so hard.
"Holy hell," I exclaim. (In my head. I typically don't talk out loud to myself, though I haven't ruled this out for the future.) I look at my kitchen arranged the way I like it, with my spices and the cutting boards just so. What if he, this hypothetical someone, wants different dishes or organizes it his way? I wouldn't change a thing, other than add a few more kitchen gadgets. I stir the veggies in the pan and wonder whether anyone else would appreciate my random, thrown together dinners.
And how on earth would another person, a man, fit in my small duplex? I'm adding two more bookcases to contain my own stuff. How would I make room in the closet? Where would another dresser go?
I say I want to get married. But dear Lord. Am I ready for what it entails? Am I ready to cede space and compromise?
Why am I even thinking about this?
I sit on the office floor, pieces of Ikea furniture around me. Normally I sit at the desk to pay bills but the stool is covered with tools and hardware. I sigh as I sign checks and tear off remittals.
Month after month, it comes down to me. My parents raised me to be responsible financially. I stay on top of due dates and running the rent check over to my landlord. I mostly adhere to my budget. No one gives me input on where to go for vacations and whether or not to buy the book I've been wanting.
The buck stops here. Always.
I want to share the load. I want to divvy up chores and responsibilities. Another set of hands to put furniture together. I'm tired of everything and anything coming down to me, me, me.
I sleep on the right side of the bed. Wherever I sleep, I choose the side closest to the door. The last few months I've noticed an interesting trend. A few books fill the empty space next to me. In cold winter months, an extra blanket lay ready for use.
I'm not trying to trick myself. At least, I don't think.
I love living by myself. I do. I'd outgrown roommates before I moved to Nashville. It would be hard to go back to sharing a place. But a husband? I could easily make room for him in my bed. We'd toss the books to the floor.
God said it wasn't good for man to live alone. I don't think it's good for this girl to sleep alone either. Year after year after year.
And yet, this is the life I lead, the very one meant for me. For now.
There is purpose in freedom, sole responsibility, and denying myself. There is purpose in the single life and it is very often good.
I keep processing these moments, trying to mine truth where I find it.
I don't understand how I can want something- feel ready for it- and fear it at the same time. Marriage means change. A lot of it. No one fully understands how marriage will change them until they're in the midst of it.
Even though I don't know if Mr. Right awaits me, I sense in my spirit preparation is occurring. I'm not entirely sure for what, though I have inklings.
If I meet the right guy, we'll figure this out together. It's part of making a relationship work.
I'll clear space if I need to. Or suggest we move to another house.