It occurred to me, while driving to work this morning, that I am happy. I’ve been one to chase rainbows and look for greener grass, rather than stop for a moment to catch my breath and take in what’s all around me, so I tend to charge through life thinking it would or should somehow be better. There’s a slow change taking place within me, though, that is letting go of burdens and looking for the joy of simply being. It’s a good feeling.
Six years ago I stood at an altar in a little chapel in Vegas, and made a vow. All the while thinking, good LORD, what am I doing? I don’t do Vegas. I don’t do vows. I don’t do permanency. I don’t do commitment. At least not formal commitment. I’ll be a friend for life, but make it an edict and I may flee.
In less than ten minutes, my life changed forever. In the years since then, I’ve maintained a little reservation, thinking that we could scrap it all and walk away if things came to that. I was more ready for things not to work, than for them to work. Horrible, awful, me. But there it is.
And here I am. Six years later. Certainly I have (many) moments of frustration and exasperation over my chosen’s lack of vested partnership when it comes to matters of the home front such as housework and child care, but to give him credit, he does shoulder the burden for the manly things (mostly involving motors, dirt and/or power tools) that I don’t like to bother with. We have two beautiful children. He sometimes comments that now that I have what I wanted (my kids), I don’t need him around any more. Not sure if he’s looking for an out, or just thinking that I’m going to kick him to the curb. I think I’ll keep him around.
After six years and two children, I’m feeling settled and content. It may be the magic number. Six years was the longest relationship I’d had previously, and it ended badly. There was no marriage, but I had sunken too much of myself into that abyss, only to learn in the end that it was riddled with lies and deceit all along, the depths of which I never unraveled (nor want to, as the mere recollection feels like swarms of maggots writhing in my guts). Those six years consumed the better part of my thirties, and I ultimately felt robbed of the prime of my life. Six years of marriage is therefore an important milestone for me. Six years, plus another two or so years in relationship prior to the big I DO, join together to negate the folly of the previous six years. I’m in the clear now. Ahead of the game. Not stuck in impossible quagmire or a nest of lies.
Six years of steady as she goes, comfortable companionship. Certainly we have our differences. We come from different worlds. Different backgrounds. Different cultures. Different people. We think differently, we speak differently, we like different foods, we enjoy different activities. So many differences. But somehow, we work. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s simply that. Comfort. Being comfortable with each other. I can imagine growing old together. And that’s something.
I like my life. My marriage. My children. My family. It’s a very very very fine life.
