Being Married...

I like being married. I can only be brave when I’ve got a safe place to land, I need that anchor and security. That’s me. I’m not going to say it’s easy, nor is it for everyone. I have a deep respect for people who are never lonely when they are alone, and those who have the wisdom and self-awareness to know that marriage doesn’t suit them. I respect too, the people who are brave enough to continue to search for the thing - we call it love - after many attempts have shattered their confidence. I want to say that it’s all perfectly fine, but somehow that still sounds like judgement; as if unmarried people are the recipients of a consolation prize. What it is, is worthy of equal reverence. 

I’ve been very fortunate in my marriage. I’ve found someone who’s weirdness roughly comingles well with mine. For example, he’s an extrovert who requires and understands the value of quiet time alone to re-charge, and I’m an introvert who still wants to have a voice in the world which forces me to leave the comfort of my cave. I am rarely troubled with small talk at large social gatherings, and he’s perfectly content to leave me alone in the kitchen, or den, when I’m working. It’s not that we don’t have our difficulties, largely because we are both intelligent, curious, and tenacious – notice I didn’t say stubborn – men, who know a lot, about a lot of things. He is Mr. Science, and I’m Mr. Humanities, which is both a source of conflict, and strength where our interests overlap. 

Here’s the thing: I can’t say that I’ll always want to be married, or that I’ll always want to be married to him. We, and most people should, continue to evolve throughout our lives. There may come a time when one or both of us want to get out. I know this as much as I know that when I’m with my hubby that it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be right now. I don’t take for granted that either of us will feel this way forever. After twenty-five years together, we aren’t the people who decided to give commitment a try at twenty-two. Hell, every cell in our bodies has died out and been replaced five times from those two organisms who met one summer in 1991. (See, I live with a scientist.) What happens is, we keep choosing to be together: we keep choosing to stay. Sometimes this happens daily, and sometimes things are difficult enough that we doubt it’s the smart choice, but we keep choosing to stay anyway. We choose to stay, knowing that one day, one, or both of us, may choose not to. That’s the risk you take. Someone once said, you can only love as much as you’re willing to have your heart broken. I know this is true in the same way that I know I’m sitting in my chair, writing these words. 

I wish I could say my husband has been so fortunate in our pairing. I know what I’m like, passionate and neurotic, unpredictable, alternately focused and lost, vain, self-centered, and sometimes embarrassingly selfish. I won’t devolve into a laundry list of my faults, those are just some of the highlights. I image he feels like he’s holding the string of an erratic kite as it twists and dips in the wind. As I said, I need an anchor. Only people close to me get to see the worrisome mess I really am. I’m just not sure it’s always a privilege. I DO roast a mean chicken, though, so there’s a plus: but just the mean ones.

Separation and divorce, I don’t know well. My parents continue to stick it out, as do my husband’s. I do know this, when relationships end, it’s always painful, and it always takes courage, wisdom, and a reserve of strength no one – including you - knew you had. It’s not because the individuals involved didn’t love each other fiercely enough, and not because they didn’t try to work things out: they end because it became impossible to continue. These people, and their choices deserve our respect, and reverence. No relationship is safe from the possibility that it will end, even if we reach the milestone of “until death do we part.”