I am twenty-two years old, & I’ve been married for two years.
This sounds absurd, even to me, as I’m living this life of wedded bliss.
Being married is an adventure. It’s a companionship that never ceases. It’s inside jokes & late night laugh-fests. It’s small, seemingly insignificant gestures of adoration — like putting toothpaste on my toothbrush or rubbing lotion on my back or letting me have the last bite of chocolate cake. It’s inescapably intimate, almost to the point of madness. It’s explicit, aggravating, euphoric. Really, there is no difference from marriage & a very best friendship between two individuals.
I deeply enjoy the life & love I have with my husband… but I sometimes find myself wondering what it would have been like if I had met him just a few years later. Just a few years. Enough time to let me find my own way. Enough time to allow me to explore myself, my wants, my needs.
But it wasn’t up to me. I met Jonathan with no intention of getting lovingly wrapped up in a relationship. I wanted him to be a fuck-buddy, if anything at all. I wanted him to be a guy that I could wrap around my finger, keeping him there as a reminder just in case I felt lonely or needy. But no… it didn’t turn out that way. It all happened so fast. We met & we fell in love at the very first sight of each other. We were inseparable, & love fueled us to keep going, to keep trying.
I couldn’t have stopped the quickness of our relationship even if I wanted to. & I tried; I really did. I tried because I kept asking myself if this was what I truly wanted; a committed relationship, not shortly after a three year dependence on someone else that practically stunted my growth. My mind said, No. Stop. This is happening too fast. This isn’t what you want. But my heart melted at the sight of him. I was absolutely smitten.
A year & a month later, we were married.
I look at women who are my age — older than me, even — & I see them single & living their lives sufficiently, & I wonder what that’s like. Sometimes I imagine myself in their shoes, slightly envious that they’ve had these chances to do things that I haven’t done. Like living on their own, going on blind-dates, kissing strangers, calling the shots, being free.
& then I start to wish…
I start to wish that I would have gotten the chance to live on my own, in my own place, with my sister. A place we could decorate together with our equal tastes. A place to have dance parties in our underwear & entertain handsome boys until dawn. A place for our memories.
I start to wish that I would have gotten the chance to explore sex. To have more partners, to have more experiences. I start to think that perhaps I would have truly owned my sexuality, rather than be afraid of it, if I had the chance to be just a little promiscuous.
& after these thoughts have steeped in my brain long enough to have me feeling confused, I think, Well do it then.
But that’s absolutely irrational. It doesn’t work that way, I say. You can’t just pause your life now & go on to a new one.
& then I laugh to myself at my foolishness & go about my day as a twenty-two year old married woman.