Engage

The single are dropping like flies…

First the best friend from high school (brown silk and hot pink bouquet, Peninsula, soft jazz and mimosas complimenting Sunday brunch).

Then the one from college (pink strapless and beige bow, sweeping Pacific Ocean view, the band playing late into the clear, dark night).

This summer the childhood one (with fiery hair who spanned the shore for colored glass with me on all the Kielkooky Crawfish Cookouts while crawdads steamed silvery in pots under a canopy of willow trees).

And then, horror of horrors, the used-to-be-my-assistant.

Engagement, commitment, combined bank accounts, standing plans, asking permission, respectfully sharing the remote, overcooked chicken, obligation, nagging.

Trading turns in favor of togetherness.

Sacrifice, coordinated outfits, arguments over kibble and sour milk, proud and weepy mothers now asking “where are my grandkids?” not two moments before doing away with “when will you get engaged?”, splitting the last brownie, I’m-tired-take-me-home-right-now-I-don’t-care-that-you-just-bought-that-drink-I’m-ready-to-go-and-so-are-you…

Psychological hurdles to overcome.

Mortgage, budget, agreement on all things possible, harmony as the ultimate goal, plumbing, car repair, mowing the lawn, dusting.

Of course, none of that is guaranteed—all imaginary, all clichés.

They never joke of coffemates, cooking Sunday dinner for two, an arm to intertwine at the dog park while pointing out our favorites for the future, seats together at movies both pretentious and mass, foot rubs and pillow-swapping, video games versus a real person, unwavering affinity, surprise flowers, make-ups…

A positive force and supporter of every word, brushstroke, and cockamamie get-rich-quick-scheme.

One driver and one DJ to a car, reading aloud magazine quizzes, reruns on rainy weekends (because so much of what makes a twosome is this, and just this—the space between events and party shoes, between pomegranate margaritas and love songs).

Understanding. Knowing a team of two is impenetrable; cannot be defeated except by itself.

A ring, a dress, a fabulous party. All extensions of this. Not the culmination of knowing, but the next and legitimate stage in learning.

Still, the stigma remains.

I don’t want to be boring.

I don’t want to be old.

I don’t want to be an adult.

Just yet.

I want to hide his keys and watch the freak-out for 45 seconds, immediately after exiting the cab.

I want to make a fort from all the couch cushions and eat Cheez-its for dinner. And watch The Simpsons.

I know for me, no matter when, I’ll still have all these things. But still, that cliché of death-of-the-single, birth-of-one-trades-for-two, always in consideration, to agree, to conform, hangs over me.

It’s not right, it’s not true, it’s all in my head.

Maybe if I grew up a bit, I wouldn’t feel this way.

Sure, there’s nothing like a nice piece of jewelry to coax a girl into acceptance. Even as third graders we pontificated on what beautiful ladies we’d grow up to be, dreaming if we couldn’t be tiara-crowned princesses now, we always had our wedding to fulfill the gown and glass slippers.

But even when the bended knee happens, if it happens, I’d think I’d agree with one small condition. I’d want to put off that party for just a little while.

Because even the illusion of un-responsibility is worth it.