Today as I dried dishes in the cafe, gritting my teeth and grumbling because I am neither employee nor slave but treated as both, a plain looking girl, my age, received a wedding gift across the table. She had been married in Paris a week before.
My heart shrunk and sank to the back of my chest. The same thing had happened several weeks ago when watching the film The White Ribbon. The subtitles read: "That I would soon call this beloved creature my wife filled me with such elation.." the rest escapes me, but not the tightening in my chest. I kept repeating the words to myself the week through.
I know, I know. Every independent, self proclaimed woman of modernity and a true sense of self should be too wise to whimper and whine for marriage. But there is no secret to this anymore: I'm a young soul. In fact I'm firmly convinced that this is my first go at being a human, (if one is to believe such things) and was more likely drifting space dust in my last incarnation than anything dealing with human relationships and the task of loving one's self. I cry at music, laugh and clap at a bird taking a bath, blow every dandelion, am wildly superstitious and believe everything the first time I hear it. The result is I'm a slave to my biology. Jealously lays me on the floor boards and insecurity walks all over me like a throw rug while my mind hasn't the vaguest idea how to conquer either.
Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being, which leads me to believe my soul is squirming in a state of infancy. Long story short, I want desperately to be loved deeply, and, perhaps more over, with constant affirmation. I want someone to want to spend the rest of their life with me, and to prove it with paperwork.