(Day 2 of 30 in 30)
I won’t even lie.
Spending the last week or so hanging out with a secondary group of friends, mostly married, some with kids, their stories peppered with mentions of “my husband’ and “the house” and “when we were in (insert country here)” all punctuated by gesturing hands topped with glittering rings made me feel some kinda way. It often does. Partially because in all the years I have known these women, I have often been single (though, it stands to note, that these are not the friends I would be particularly pressed to bring a boo around). And partially because, you know, my mama. And the constant reminders everywhere I turn that something must be wrong with me. It wears on you after a while, no matter what your feelings on the subject.
But in the same vein of honesty I also have to admit; hearing these smart, funny, gorgeous women (who are by no means Stepford wives rendered two-dimensional or stripped of personality by marriage the way some might have you believe all women are) talk about how they had to pack for their husbands to make sure they remembered to bring underwear on long trips, or the trials of pregnancy and motherhood and all the trappings that typically go with married-with-2.5-kids-a-dog-and-a-house, I felt relief wash over me in big, overwhelming waves I can barely explain. I was overwhelmingly glad to be going to a big bed I can sprawl out in and that when I want to get up and go, to the store, to Atlanta, to Jamaica, I absolutely can. That when I buy something I have no business buying, I have no one pouring over our shared credit card bills and questioning how much I spent. That on any given day I can shut myself off from civilization with the shows I have DVRed for myself and watch them in my bed in my panties without worry for do I need to cook for him? Where is he? What do I need to do for us for ____ event? Did he pay this bill? Did he do this thing? “My husband”, “my kids”, him, him, them, us, he he he.
I won’t pretend I don’t often wish I was sharing my big Sunday dinners with someone. Or of going to see movies with someone other than my mama. Or extending the list of cities and countries I have made the sex in with a significant other when I travel. But after leaving my friends and dragging my sweaty, exhausted self into the shower and then bed, I lay there, diagonally of course, incredibly grateful of being exactly where I should be for what I’m ready for. And not a single thing else.