No matter how sure I am, no matter that I know in my heart of hearts that I am doing the “right thing” there is something about having a “wedding” that is making me antsy. It’s funny, I never felt like this when I got married before. Although if you’d asked me to be honest, even then, if I thought we’d make it until the end of time I would have had to ask you what “make it” looks like to you.
I am so absolutely ready to marry MQD. We have grown so much together in the last two years. Not only closer, but individually. And I can see us continuing to challenge each other for years to come. It is the making a decision that touches not just my life, maybe, that is making it scarier. You don’t typically choose a parent for your child. And I have been so lucky. To find a boy that makes me crazy and a man that makes me sane all wrapped up in one human being.
So what is it that has me staring at the ceiling at night instead of sleeping? Equal parts “Do I remember where I put my strapless bra?” and “Will anyone notice that my shoes are not exactly the same color as my crinoline?” and “How long do we try to get pregnant before I freak the fuck out?” I suppose. But if I dig deep and am honest there isn’t any part of me that wonders if MQD is the “right person” for me. But I do find it unsettling that there is no litmus test.
I never imagined I’d get married again. And I never imagined I’d spend my days adding up numbers and arranging invoices and expenses and facts. But what appeals to me about my job is exactly what is making me antsy about getting married. I don’t love construction. Or math. But I love it when all the numbers add up. They are right. There is no need to argue them. They are correct. Period. I love being right.
In about two weeks I will gather my friends and family and say “Hey guys! Check out this Life Plan. I pick him. He is “right.” And I am “right” for him.” But I can’t export a marriage in to Excel and double-check it. There will be no tape from the adding machine stapled to our marriage license with my initials on it.
I have been thinking on this for a few days. Wondering when I stopped being fearless. Is it being a parent? being older? having been hurt in the past? Have I just developed a tendency to over think things in the last decade?
And then I ran across this. And I stopped worrying about right or wrong.
Loving the wrong person
Let our scars fall in love.
We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems–the ones that make you truly who you are–that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person–someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”
I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.
Can’t get much more wrong than this, can you? Love you, MQD. Thanks for putting up with me the last few weeks.