Of Being A
by Selene Holston
September 30, 2018
It’s my dream to one day marry a man (providing he is all that I am hoping for) who shall adapt quickly to my abstract philosophy that marriages would fare better if the couple lived across town from one another. In other words, after the honeymoon, he would maintain his abode and I would maintain mine. Therefore, though we would be together as man and wife, we would live apart to stave off the inevitability of boredom and monotony that accompanies marriage when two people are on top of each other everyday.
Though I want to be married (I’m 32 and never been), there’s too much I enjoy about single living that I don’t want to give up…and I personally believe you can have your cake and eat it too. I just hope I can find a love who shares my view. Don’t get me wrong. I want a husband, so that I can have someone to call in the middle of the night when my car stops on the road who won’t tell me to call the police. I want my own personal lover, that I know belongs only to me (I hope, I hope, I hope). I want someone who really listens when I talk and cares about how I feel and doesn’t mind how long I talk on the phone to my girlfriends. I want a built-in companion who I can uninhibitedly set out to please and not worry about making a fool of myself. I am overdue to be referred to as So and So’s wife (I’ve outgrown the girlfriend label). But most of all, I want to experience the feeling of love that can only come when the man you love asks you to be his wife.
But like I stated earlier, for me, the single life is the BOMB. You see, I don’t want to share my personal space, my private moments or my total freedom with another person. Right now, I don’t have to explain to anyone why I’m going shopping again or out with my girlfriends. Nor do I want to feel guilty for not wanting to go to his mother’s or his sister’s for dinner. And though I want my own man, I don’t want to have to worry about where he is or what he’s doing. I don’t want to go to the refrigerator for that last piece of sweet potato pie and find it gone.
I don’t want to have to adapt to those habits and idiosyncrasies that conflict sharply with mine (such as leaving the TV on all night). I don’t want to wonder what’s wrong with him because he’s not talking and I don’t want another person in the house with me who has the potential to disturb my peace or the magazine I left on the table.
I want to cook when I get ready, and not feel obligated to perform a duty…wash dishes when I feel like it and spend my money as I wish and not have to account for one penny to another living soul.
For me, the ideal would be for my husband and I to meet up on the weekend and come together as lovers meeting once a week for a rendezvous. I wish to date my husband, not live with him. Our relationship, as I envision it, would be romantic and exciting offering us the unique advantage of missing each other through the week and flying hungrily into each other’s arms on the weekend.
When I shared this idea with my friend Susie, she called me a “crazy woman” and informed me (like I didn’t know it) that my husband would therefore be living like a single man, still able to maintain a single’s lifestyle…meaning my arrangement would leave him room for unimpaired indulgence in women, wine and song.
“I could never trust my husband to live one place and I live another!” she said. But when I reminded her of the traditional marriages of two of our friends and their husbands who had secret houses that the wives didn’t know about, she zipped her lip.
You see, the way I see it, you have to trust a man until you have a reason not to. And with my marriage arrangement, trust would be the most important element for it to work.
Of course, I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that the kids would live with him, and a nanny, a maid and a chauffeur. Then, I’d make a grand entrance on Fridays and light up the surroundings. For me, there would be no diapers to change, no tantrums to control. Just hugs and adoration when I walked through the door. However, the trouble with dreams are their direct correlation to fantasy and complete opposition to reality. But a girl can still dream…can’t she?