One of the things that scared me most about getting married was knowing that I’d having to put a check mark in the “married” box for the rest of my life. It wasn’t that I was afraid of marriage. It was just that by checking that box, I knew “married” was inevitably going to color my identity in ways I wasn’t prepared for. Our culture puts so much emphasis on romantic relationships, that relationship status often ends up being used as stand-in for any meaningful exploration of each other’s identities (and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be Maddie first and married second).
So this week, we thought we’d look a little deeper into the ways we are defined by our relationship status, starting with a follow-up post from Elizabeth of Lowe House Events on being happily single. In a culture that does an awful lot of single shaming, Elizabeth’s post is a breath of fresh air on accepting that life is not some imaginary thing in the distance that will exist once you’ve “settled down.” It’s what’s happening right now, provided that you choose to live it that way.
—Maddie for Maternity Leave
{Elizabeth at the fortieth anniversary party she threw for her parents, because she loves marriage}
I am currently nearing the end of the (so far) nine-month process of buying my first house. My twenty-ninth birthday is this month, and while buying a house before turning thirty is relatively rare in the area I live in, apparently much more surprising is the fact that I’m buying a house while single. And not the census definition of not-married single, but partner-less single. I’ve gotten some heartening reactions to this from a lot of people—women in my parent’s generation, most of whom are strong second-wave feminists (I mean, come on, I grew up and still live next to Berkeley), inevitably give me an excited hug and a “you go girl” cheer. However, the responses indicating mixed feelings about this step have been surprising—because they’ve come from my own demographic. For example, when observing [whining] how effing hard and complicated the house buying process was at one point this summer, a longtime girlfriend of mine responded off-handedly, “Well, that’s why most people don’t do it by themselves.”
That, my friends, is not only single shaming, but she actually got it totally, totally wrong. Because the truth is, many times throughout this process I have actually stopped to think how much easier it is to be doing this by myself. I’ve been able to choose which houses to bid on based purely on one set of criteria—my own. In a process with a million variables, from “Is this a good price for the neighborhood?” to “Will my life fit into this space?” to “Is the amount of work needed something I can handle?” for me it always came down to “Do I like it? And can I make it feel like home to me?” I’m a former interior designer with strong feelings about architectural styles and features. The house I’m currently in contract on wasn’t staged when I looked at it, meaning the current owner’s very-strong decorating sense was overwhelming to many people who walked in. Having apartment hunted with an ex-boyfriend who had a very hard time seeing beyond current tenant’s things to the bones of a space, I know that a partner could have (would have?) made house hunting much, much more frustrating for me.
Okay, so maybe in your head you’re thinking, “Great, so Elizabeth doesn’t like to compromise” (and somewhere behind that is a second voice saying “No wonder you’re single”). Well, no. It’s true that I am someone with very particular and often high standards—about houses, about men, about business practices, hell, about shoes and sandwich bread. Do I have some things that I won’t compromise on? Sure, and hopefully you do too (see: sorry, but we definitely can’t be friends if you’re homophobic). But I’m actually pretty great at compromising. I eat just about anything, so will almost always concede on where to have dinner. I have definite taste in music, but if you want to DJ I’m fine, as long as it’s not Death Metal. And I’m someone who is generally quick to apologize and takes constructive criticism well. I realize that I’m flawed, and that that doesn’t make me unlovable.
I’ve written here before about spending the first half of my twenties in a relationship that almost ended in marriage. I ended that relationship (despite the fact that I was terrified at the time of being single) because I realized that I was compromising so much on so very many things that in the end I was actually compromising who I inherently was as a person. And since that breakup, I have loved being single. It allows me to live my life with a degree of freedom that is just not possible when you’re partnered. That said, am I determinedly single? Not really. I date—a lot. In the last four and a half years I’ve had several long term, casual dating relationships, as well as gone on a veritable truckload of first and second dates. Dating encompasses many things that I happen to find very fun—meeting new people, getting dressed up, going to fancy (or dive-y) bars, kissing with my back pressed against a car. But I continue to be in absolutely no rush to partner up, because even beyond the freedom I continue to find life to be so full, so interesting, and so not lonely that… it’s going to take a pretty strong argument to get me to change it. And I have yet to meet the person who has been able to make that argument.
But, you’re now saying, wait, you’re a wedding planner. How can you be around weddings all the time when you don’t want to get married? Wait, did I ever actually say that? I don’t think so. I am not anti-marriage. Not for other people, obviously, but also not for myself. In fact, I consider myself extremely lucky that I get to have a front row seat to the start of so many marriages. My college roommate and her long-term boyfriend got married last month in a small, home made, community driven weekend of total loveliness. I flew across the country and in the span of four days got wedding manicures with the bride, baked a wedding cake, curled her hair, witnessed for the license, took Polaroids at City Hall, gave a toast, and (slightly drunkenly) shoved the contents of my wallet into the hands of the wait staff to stay for an extra hour of cleanup at the end of the night so that we could go after-party at a bar. I flew home the next day tired, hung over, without my sunglasses, and with less cash, but on a total emotional high. It was a weekend that now ranks in the top ten happiest times of my life. It reminded me, more than any other wedding I’ve attended, why I love what I do. And it reminded me of why, while I am totally and completely happy being single, I’m also open to that kind of partnership and that kind of love. Because that kind of love is a powerful thing. It lets people be the best versions of themselves. Which doesn’t mean that they don’t compromise; it’s just that the compromises they make don’t compromise them. It’s a kind of love that infects other people with its joy. Seeing one of my oldest and dearest friends enveloped in it—how could that have been anything other than amazing for me? And how could some part of me not want that for myself?
The reason I even bring up my job is because society likes it when people and things fit into easily definable categories—it makes it easier for us to understand each other without having to go so far as actually getting to know someone. And it allows to us to connect with each other about shared experiences. (You’re single! Me too! Let’s talk about being single together!) But it also denies the complexity of our experiences and leaves no room for any level of nuance. So while “believes in marriage” and “loves being single” seem like they should fall neatly into separate categories, the truth is that they don’t, or at least that they don’t have to. Am I happy being single? On every level. Am I open to finding a partner to make compromises with, marry, and share a life with? Completely. And why should I have to pick one or the other? Because who knows what the future holds. I learn with every year to try and predict that less and less, because if time has taught me anything it’s that God likes nothing more than to laugh at our plans. So instead of making plans, I choose to work on preparing for variables, and focus on making things fit what life looks like right now. I choose to live every stage of my life with conviction, while not confusing conviction in the present with certainty of the future. And to not feel like I’m a contradiction just because I occupy a few measly categories at the same time.
I’m not sure why our generation seems to have reverted back to such bipartisan beliefs on relationships—where this pressure of having to pick “single” or “partnered” to permanently camp in comes from. I have a hunch that romantic comedies and the rest of popular media don’t help—there are lots of songs about love, and lots about heartbreak, but very few about anything in between. I’d also venture to say that the lack of a single strong feminist movement in our generation has set us back somewhat—the more independent I am as a single, adult woman the more my not-single female friends appear to worry about me. There seems to be an idea that by continuing to build my own life—owning a business, traveling, buying a house—I’m running out of room in it for someone else. That idea, the idea that life can ever be totally full, that there’s no room left to grow and change, is a belief that hurts everyone—married or single. (And, it has to be said, it’s an idea that can hurt marriages more than almost anything else—because after the recessional do the changes just stop? Do you stop growing because now your life is full?)
So, as I (not so) patiently wait for my house to close, am I still happy that I’m buying it by myself? You bet, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. My main criteria was that I found a house that would work perfectly for me right now—where I could live, build a home, grow my business, throw dinner parties, bake cakes, and host friends who came to visit or needed a place to stay. And I am very happy to report that I found that. But a second criteria was that it would also have room for someone else—that it was a house that wouldn’t feel too big for just me, but wouldn’t feel too small for myself plus another. These two criteria don’t contradict each other, in the same way that it’s possible to love the summer with every fiber of your being and still eagerly pull out your boots and scarves when fall rolls around. Because change is the only constant, and learning to accept it with grace is one of the most important lessons of being human.
Photo by: Hart & Sol West (APW Sponsor)
