by R.J. Forman
Not so long ago I found myself curled up in the fetal position in a hotel room on the top floor of a crappy casino outside of Las Vegas listening to Radiohead’s "Nude," praying that the building wouldn’t collapse.
This bizarre death obsession comes from my feeling of suffocating from being shoved into a societal box: The Marriage Box.
I am at that age now at which everyone starts looking at anyone I date as a potential spouse.
This is normal.
This is accepted.
This is expected.
I mean, even Sex and the City’s perennial single Carrie Bradshaw got married this year…a plot line that was never penned in the crappy book on which that TV series was based.
This is EVERYWHERE.
And this makes me want to die.
Movies like 27 Dresses and Bride Wars (due out later this week) are beating down single girls’ doors reminding them of their role in this life.
I was in Vegas for — guess what?! — a wedding. During a barrage of drunken badgering it was revealed that I have no desire to be married. Later it would be revealed that (brace yourself) I don’t want to have children either.
Everyone was appalled. Stunned. Prayers for my saving were mumbled. It’s not that I think marriage is wrong or that having children is wrong. It’s that it’s wrong for me.
This is how the conversations normally go:
“You don’t want to get married?”
“Wait, you don’t want to be married?”
“No I don’t. It’s just never been a dream of mine. Never been in the future I pictured.”
“Seriously? You don’t want to get married?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Don’t you want kids?”
(Then the person looks at me as if I’ve just said “kill all the puppies and let’s bring back leprosy!”)
The non-marriage conversation in Vegas ended with a “Do you even believe in god?!” and me bee lining it to the bar.
The problem is we’re still living life in the 1950’s model of behavior but pretending that we’ve advanced. Women, although they’re allowed to have jobs and vote now, are still expected to get married and have kids. I mean, that’s what our bodies were designed for, right?
We won’t let gays who want to be married and have children do it, but women — whether they want marriage and kids — are expected to become June Cleaver.
In David Deida’s bullshit book for women Dear Lover, Deida says the following vomit and panic attack-inducing nonsense:
“As a young woman, you may have dreamt of masculine saviors: horses, pop stars, white knights….Deep in your heart, you felt that someday a man would see your true beauty, your true light, your boundless ocean of love, and take you to the place you always wanted to be….”
No, David. As a young woman I dreamt of stardom, power and glory. I dreamt of me seeing the light and beauty in me. Nobody else.
I dreamt of being Axl Rose or the first woman to play in the major leagues.
The only reason I’d want kids is because you get to name them. But you can name pets (MoFo=cat) and furniture (TV=Zeus, couch=Hercules) and cars (Alice the Honda.)
When I was a kid I played “college” instead of “house.” I hated house. I insisted on playing the dog every time I was forced into it.
Upon college graduation my parents wanted me to do the whole ceremony thing and I jokingly told them that they could pick one aisle for me to walk down. Either walk to get a diploma or walk down the aisle at my wedding. They wisely picked diploma.
This not wanting to get married and not wanting to have children makes me a social pariah, a leper, a (god forbid) lesbian, a deviant.
Truth is I’m just a girl trying to make it to tomorrow...on my own.
(The graphic was created with the Despair, Inc. parody generator.)
Sex and the City
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by R.J. Forman