i have too many fantasies to be a housewife. i guess i am a fantasy.

Let’s just get this out of the way…


My name is Katie.

And I don’t want to get married.

I don’t want to say never, but, well, ok…

I never want to get married.

Cue looks of shock (the horror!), of skepticism (the whore!), and well, mostly of disbelief.

That last one? That’s the one I have the trouble with. Because no matter what arguments I put forth, logical and well worded though they may be, I have yet to convince a single soul that a young girl with a pretty face, a loaded daddy, and a boyfriend of five years just isn’t interested in receiving a tiny blue box and promises of forever.

Ok, that’s a lie. Blue boxes? Yes please. And forever? I’m down with that too.

My inability to endorse the institution of marriage, a social malfunction of sorts, surely, is a result of a veritable cocktail of factors, most of which can be distilled down to three words:

It’s just me.

I wish I could say I have always been so sure of my stance on the art of betrothal, but a the combination of attending a double digit number of weddings this year teamed with relatives, friends, acquaintances, strangers on the streets’ well-meaning habit of incessant questioning as to just when I’d be sporting a rock on my left had ring finger proved nearly fatal to my flighty soul.

I broke.

I was nearly convinced of the necessity of marriage to the well-being of my life. Of the perfection of the imminent timing that was sure to shortly pass. Of the fact that there was something wrong with me, with us, because we weren’t yet engaged.

I was very nearly convinced of the fact that my significant other was divinely apathetically minded toward our union because he hadn’t yet proposed.

I quite nearly drowned in a sea of tulle and tears.

And then?

I woke up.

And I was livid.

That girl? That girl is not me. Has never been me. Will never be me.

I am a strange amalgamation of character traits, neurosis, likes and dislikes that is often times hard to separate into individual pieces to figure out what the fuck is really going on in my head, my psyche.

Case in point: I fucking love weddings. Love them. I want to plan them and party at them, celebrate and count down to them. I will buy you presents and shower you with best wishes, because exhibit B…

I think marriage is undeniably romantic. I have no such delusions of grandeur about my superiority to those that are matrimonially minded. I have had the utter privilege to see quite a few friends exchange vows, and it would be a disservice to say it was anything less than otherworldly. That kind of devotion, the til-death-do-us-part-kind, is divine.

This deficit, this inability to conform to something labeled an institution, this fault, this madness, is my own.

First, well,  I’m a bitch. I see no reason to legally bind myself to someone that I bound myself to quite some time ago. And though I am quite well aware of others’ views of such unions as lesser than, I simply don’t give a fuck. I know what we have. And that? Is enough for me.

And while I may be (yea, yea, yea, I’m so) hard, I scare easily, am unconvinced of humanity’s inclination to be monogamous, and am wholly unwilling to be tamed. This trifecta of disobedience is well, less than conducive to marriage.

Love, honor, and obey? Fuck no.

job of the day: historian


~ by rubylocks on January 28, 2010.

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