Sometimes, I miss being single. I don’t think attached people are really allowed to say such a sacrilegious thing, but I wonder how many other people have felt the same way.
I smile when I remember the thrill of new romance and leaving sticky notes with math jokes on Andrew’s car. But I also smile when I remember driving by myself to a concert in Detroit and how I breezed through the blinking red lights on 28th Street at 2 a.m. before I had a 9 a.m. class. There’s always some guff about how the college years (or your twenties) are supposedly the best time of one’s young and silly life. You’re never really aware of it when you’re living it out, but you gain perspective once you’ve known whatever happens to be… not that.
The weight of being responsible for someone else—emotionally, financially, spiritually, whatever—can take its toll. That’s not to say that Andrew doesn’t also contribute to our partnership; he certainly does and he’s happy to do the chores I dislike or listen to me vent about something. But, as one professor once told me, sometimes we revert to whiny sixteen year olds and we have to let those petty and selfish bits of us air out every once in a while. I don’t want to have to always be “on” in order to make sure we manage our finances well, or that the kitchen gets cleaned, or that Andrew doesn’t forget something.
Life partnerships are supposed to be edifying and beautiful things, according to most sources, so when I don’t quite feel like I’m living up to that shining ethereal ideal, it makes me feel ragged and guilty. Life was simpler when I only had to worry about myself, and I didn’t have to constantly worry about how my decisions were impacting others. Maybe my musings are just the hallmark of general college-aged rose-coloured glasses—I certainly might not be in such a mood if I were still single and had followed my original plan of moving to the UK for grad school and finding someone to date or marry with an exotic passport—but I feel like I never had enough time to do all the things I would’ve liked to do.
One of the most important pieces of advice I would give someone who’s getting married is that you’ve got to wrap your head around the fact that by saying “yes” to the present opportunity, you’re saying that you’re okay with saying “no” to whatever future opportunities. I could’ve moved to the UK and met someone great and made a life with them there. But I chose to give up that potential future (and all others, for that matter) to pursue the future I saw with Andrew. I think I’ve made my peace with that particular aspect of marriage, but being stuck in mid-Michigan for the majority of my twenties does nothing to ease the itch of my weird little independent introvert restlessness.
Travelling is a whole heck of a lot more expensive when there are two of you and you’re both picky sleepers. Always booking a king bed instead of a random hostel dormitory is extremely inconvenient. But it’s also nice to leave your bags with someone when you have to run into the airport bathroom or when your arms get too tired and you can foist a bag onto your partner… even if they get turned into a brainless babbling ninny when confronted with border control.
There’s a lot of talk about honesty that’s essentially just selfishness. It’s not “honest” to tear someone down because you’re feeling momentarily vindictive. But, as with everything, there’s a more nuanced tension between the two in situations like mine. I know it’s fundamentally selfish to wish I had been single and unattached for a little bit longer (and not for the usual vulgar reasons), but I’ve also been open with Andrew at the times when the bite of that angst has been sharpest. There’s joy in being understood and held close, even when you’re just a whiny teenager. I know that even if I wander around here and there, I’ve got someone who grounds me and pulls me home.
