Get Your Running Shoes: The L-word and marriage talk already?!?!

This weekend, Belle hit the quarter-century mark. (Woo hoo!

NRA Guy wasn’t invited to the Big Birthday Shindig on Saturday, mainly because I didn’t want him to meet the friends before having a chance to redeem himself in some ways. (That I’ve still only met Best Buddy had more than a little to do with it, too.) Since he was out of the picture on the actual Big Day, he asked to take me and the roommate out Friday night.

When I asked him what I should wear, he told me I shouldn’t dress for a ball or for a baseball game. For most guys, this would’ve sufficiently narrowed options, and they would’ve been fine wearing any mid-tier wardrobe selection, no matter the destination. Being that I’m a girl, this didn’t help me all that much in choosing an outfit. Should I wear slacks or a skirt or jeans? Heels or no? Flashy or modest jewelry?

He wanted the plans to be a surprise, but I already had an idea (which later proved correct) about his intentions. We’d talked about going to a comedy club before, and I assumed that’s where he wanted to take us. In the interest of letting him have his surprise-Belle fun, I didn’t want to ask straight out if that was in the cards for the evening in the midst of our what-do-I-wear conversation. Instead, I asked if I could wear jeans.

NRA: You can wear jeans, but only because I love you.
(In the background, a record scratches to a stop.)
(Simultaneously)
NRA: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…
Belle: (Laughs hysterically)
NRA: no, no, no, no… I didn’t mean… no, no, no, no…
Belle: (Still laughing)
NRA: I… um, that’s not what I… no, no, no, no…
Belle: (… and still…)
NRA: No, I take it back. I just meant…
Belle: (Catching breath) I know what you meant...

The conversation continued for a few more minutes, with me erupting into fits of laughter several more times before we got off the phone. I asked if he was going to tell Best Buddy about his (Freudian?) slip, and he said absolutely not. I told him I was going to tell Roommate about it, and he freaked out, telling me I couldn’t. Of course, I did. Her initial reaction to my (admittedly provocative) revelation was to ask, “And you didn’t run far, far away?” Then I told her what actually happened.

I have to say, I’m glad he slipped up first. I tell almost all my friends I love them regularly (and I do love you guys!). My family and I end every phone conversation that way. We say it whenever we leave the house (the reasoning being, I’m sure, that if someone dies, the last thing you said will have been, “I love you,” and not something like, “I’m sick of you never taking out the trash. Just go!”). I say it all the time to Roommate. Sometimes, it just comes out when I’m talking to acquaintances (and, maybe on a few occasions, really cool strangers). That’s why I didn’t run when he said it. I know he didn’t mean it like that*, and it gives me a free pass for when I inevitably let the L-word slip.

The whole incident has actually proved rather entertaining. I’ve been giving him endless shit about The Slip since then. It makes him wriggle around uncomfortably, explain himself endlessly, and perhaps even blush a little. What fun for me.

Roommate decided to cook a birthday lovely dinner for me last night. NRA and a long-time friend came over to eat with us. (We’ll call her Ms. Potato, to keep things less confusing. And, no, that name doesn’t get an explanation here.) Several glasses of Spanish wine into our (semi) Spanish-themed evening, Ms. Potato started talking about someone she knows who is getting married. She asked NRA’s opinion of the suitor asking the father for his beloved’s hand in marriage. (Gag) NRA’s response was that he would absolutely have to ask the father for permission. He was so matter-of-fact about it.

I was just standing in the kitchen staring at him, thinking, “I’m dating this guy? Really?” Although my father would perhaps think it nice if someone were to ask him for my hand in marriage, I think the whole thing reeks of antiquated ideals of women as property.

My father hasn’t had a say in my life in at least seven years. More than that if you count that he never really dealt with me when I was living at home. He left the girl-child rearin’ to the women-folk while he took my brothers off to teach them hard work and hard play and make them into men misogynists or whatever the hell they were up to while I was helping clean the house and run errands and make dinner. (You know. Women’s work.)

My father and I have never been close, although things are admittedly better between us in the past two years. He has made an effort recently, and I’ve appreciated that. The strain and tension have dissipated, but that doesn’t make us close. I don’t belong to the guy. He can’t give anyone permission to do anything with me. (Not that NRA was talking specifically about me, but my mind is allowed to go that way. We are dating.)

Perhaps my mind will change. Fucking hormones. When I was very young (like, seven or eight), I remember saying I wouldn’t get married until I’d gone to college, gotten a job, and had my own home. I’d seen my married-at-18 mother fight long, constant battles to get everything (an education, cars, a home, clothes… you name it) after she and my dad divorced when she was nearly 30. I’d seen those same signs of dependence in my step-mom, who married my divorced-with-two-kids dad at 17. I vowed I’d never be the woman who couldn’t take care of herself because she depended on some man to do it and he let her down. Pretty heavy thinking for an 8-year-old.

Later, when I was a bit older, I started to hate the idea of marriage itself. The odds are against you, and I saw way too many fall apart around me. And, although I love children, I decided I didn’t want them for a multitude of reasons. I saw my parents go through things with each of my brothers that I don’t think I’d be able to handle as a parent. That alone could have been enough to make me never want to have kids if I hadn’t already made up my mind on the matter.

Where was I going with this?... Oh yeah, Fucking Hormones. Lately, I’ve noticed subtle changes in the way I think, both about marriage and about kids. I’m unwilling to outright admit that I might be open to the possibility of either (and, no, this has nothing to do with NRA directly. I’ve been suppressing/denying/battling this potential transition for a while now). But I can’t deny that I sometimes feel like it really might not be so bad to go down that route. It always creeps up on me when I’m not expecting it. I blame the hormones. Hormones do crazy things to otherwise sane people (not to claim that I’m sane or anything…).

So, perhaps if my hormones make me go (more?) crazy and I find some guy who’s tricky enough to get me to agree to marry him, I might actually think it a nice gesture that he asked my father for my hand. But I doubt it.

I asked NRA if it bothered him that we want such different things in life. He said he’s not worried about it right now, but I don’t really believe him. He’s already mentioned on a few occasions that I don’t want marriage or kids and he does (usually preceded by “and that’s another thing”). The other night, I was talking about my dream to live in different places every two years or so. While he conceded that it would be cool to get to know so many places like that (I agree; I hate tourist-y traveling), he wouldn’t be into it at all. (“You couldn’t start a career.” “Moving is hard and expensive.” “It’s hard to make new friends.” Etc. and whatnot.)

Meh.

* NRA told me on the phone yesterday that he wouldn’t say the L-word for real until we’d been dating at least a year. The Roommate and I have a bet on that one. If we stay together, neither of us thinks he’ll manage to hold out that long.