So who shall I ask? George Clooney? The postman? Idris Elba? (“if only!” she says, swooning a little swoon inside).
The idea of marriage has entered my worldspace on three occasions in my life:
- When I was 21, an American soldier asked me to marry him after six days of knowing him. I’d never had a real boyfriend before, and the attention overwhelmed me. I told him I wasn’t sure, but I would think about it over the Christmas break. When I returned two weeks later, he was engaged to someone else! Apparently his mother had said she’d give a six-bedroom house in Queens as a wedding present and he wanted to make sure he sealed the deal!
- In 1989, I was in Germany, staying up until the wee hours of the morning each night to watch the Detroit Pistons eventually win the NBA Championships. While others drooled over Isiah Thomas or little cutey-pie Joe Dumars, yours truly was dreaming of the hulking, hard-hitting bad-boy, Rick Mahorn. I wrote and posted him a poem called “Bleary Eyes and Daydreams” to win his heart. One of the verses went a bit like this:
If I might offer a subtle suggestion,
Would marrying me tomorrow be out of the question?
But seriously though, I do hold the belief
That the sexiest men have a gap in their teeth.
Strangely, I never did receive a reply.
- The third example was in 1997,when I asked someone to marry me – but he said no, and I said OK. Six months later, he asked me to marry him. I said no, and he cried.
Nope. Marriage is never something that has ever really cropped up as a serious topic of conversation in my 40-something years on the planet. My lifestyle/attitude/demeanour/unique approach to romance has never really lent itself to attracting a man, let alone keeping one interested in me long enough to desire my company for the rest of eternity. I’m rarely in one place for longer than six months, I’m flighty, and I have an absurdly short attention span. I was (am?) the type of person who gets a kick out of the chase – the less available the better, because then it’s never my fault when it “doesn’t work out.” I have little interest in someone who’s actually interested in me. And if the “chasee” eventually gives in and shows me some attention, then poof! – the fun is gone, and I drift off to challenges new.
Given my psychiatrist’s recent suggestion that I exist somewhere on the Bipolar Spectrum, I should perhaps assume that this rather disparaging view towards relationships is connected to my illness in some way. Admittedly, when I’m plummetting into the depths of a depressive phase, I berate myself for being a useless failure in life because I’m “obviously” unloveable and irrelevant to society without a partner…
But on days such as today, I like being on my own.
I like the fact that I have a whole bed to myself. I like the fact that I can watch Judge Judy every day on TV, that I can go where I please just for the hell of it, I can write, I can read in silence, I can listen to classical music and Gil Scott-Heron, I can burn the dinner, I can play my saxophone in the bathroom, I can pull bits of wallpaper off the wall, I can leave wellies in the sink, I can eat a carrier bag full of sweets and chocolate, I can jump in muddy puddles, I can fart and pick my toenails in the living room, and I can have hairy legs.
I like being single.
So, women of today, use this once-in-four-years opportunity to woo the man of the hour if you like….
But I think I’ll give it a miss this year, and go paint a parrot on my bedroom ceiling.