My 25 year old cousin is getting married. As luck, and God, and good grace should have it, she has met the one, and she is the one for him. In the last couple of weeks we have scanned wedding magazines, examined venues, and finally picked the all important wedding dress. It is an unspeakable joy to share in this amazing time in her life; but a burden as well.
I can't help but think of Alice in Wonderland standing in the mirror looking in and finding out that she could actually step inside. In real life the looking glass is invisible and stepping in is more in line with being a witness. I am a witness, not a participant. As time goes by I am the engagement party host, the wedding guest, the pseudo aunt to the new baby. I am the girl on the side of the picture, peeking in just before the flash.
Somehow, the life I daydreamed about for the last three decades has passed me by. The next generation in the family has started living, loving and procreating, while I've simply existed.
When I was young, I was the good girl. I listened to my mother, I tried to keep to a moral code, I didn't push the envelope, and truly believed that if I followed the rules I would be rewarded with the life that comes with all of the accouterments of proper living. As it turns out, I was wrong. Many of the girls who broke the rules are now married with children.
It has become my lot in life to stand on the other side looking in. As time has passed on I find myself spreading congratulations when someone gets engaged, hunting gifts when someone gets married, picking out onesies and baby toys for the new sweet little person who has entered this world. Don't get me wrong, I love the fact that so many people with joyous occasions are in my life and that I am allowed to share in their magnificent wealth of love and joy. But ever so often when the world slows enough for me to sit back, and the quiet is enough for me to hear my own thoughts, I am left to wonder about looking at the pictures instead of being in them.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Actually, I met Someone
When I was six years old I met the boy by which every boy, now man would be judged against. He made my heart skip and my breath catch; and nothing less than that would be acceptable. We grew up across the street from each other in different worlds, but that never mattered to me.
An optimist by nature I never allowed myself to believe that those different worlds would change the outcome of my ever hoped for happy ending. We lost touch for a decade and a half, but I was later compelled to find him again. I expected to find him with a perfectly packaged life and when I didn't I must admit that I was hopeful again. For four years and four months I've been his friend, his lover, his most ardent supporter sitting silently in the background waiting for my turn. Somehow, I always believed that no matter who came and went that one day my chance would come.
I envisioned the day when he would finally look up and "see" me. See my beauty, inside and out, see my heart, open and willing, see my truth, that even at 80 or 100 years old, to me he would always be the sweetest and most beautiful boy in the world. Through every disappointment, let down, or momentary struggle I believed in that happy ending. Until. . .
I believed until those four words came across my screen. "Actually, I met someone." I've grown to know him, so I know it's serious. I've taken stock of the man he is and am forced to admit he's finally ready to love again, and he will love someone else. It isn't enough to admit that I am vacant of the proper words to fully express what I feel. I told him I was glad for him while my heart sank, and the still present lump appeared in my throat. When I told a close friend that he'd met someone and she might be the one, she replied, "SO" and said that she didn't see why it mattered.
My head knows that if she turns out to be the "one" I should be happy for him. My heart isn't so quick to follow suit. Being happy for him would mean rejoicing in the one thing I could never hope for, him being with someone else. . . Forever. Being a good person would mean wishing him well and moving on, but I might not be that good a person. I want to be, but it's harder than I could ever have imagined.
Maybe it's the fact that the older we get, our pool of choices shrinks as well. Maybe it's because to hope means that you can't really leave yourself room for doubt, because doubt is the enemy, doubt is defeat; so I kept hoping. For the last four days the sun has been shining and the temperature has been beautifully warm; but for me it's a little darker, and a little colder. That day that I never allowed myself to believe would come may be fast approaching, and while I've always believed in the happy ending, I'm finding it a bit difficult to throw a party for this one.
I promised myself that one day I would be happy for him. . . eventually. I'm not sure how long that would take, after all, who ever hoped for their perfect happy ending, for someone else.
An optimist by nature I never allowed myself to believe that those different worlds would change the outcome of my ever hoped for happy ending. We lost touch for a decade and a half, but I was later compelled to find him again. I expected to find him with a perfectly packaged life and when I didn't I must admit that I was hopeful again. For four years and four months I've been his friend, his lover, his most ardent supporter sitting silently in the background waiting for my turn. Somehow, I always believed that no matter who came and went that one day my chance would come.
I envisioned the day when he would finally look up and "see" me. See my beauty, inside and out, see my heart, open and willing, see my truth, that even at 80 or 100 years old, to me he would always be the sweetest and most beautiful boy in the world. Through every disappointment, let down, or momentary struggle I believed in that happy ending. Until. . .
I believed until those four words came across my screen. "Actually, I met someone." I've grown to know him, so I know it's serious. I've taken stock of the man he is and am forced to admit he's finally ready to love again, and he will love someone else. It isn't enough to admit that I am vacant of the proper words to fully express what I feel. I told him I was glad for him while my heart sank, and the still present lump appeared in my throat. When I told a close friend that he'd met someone and she might be the one, she replied, "SO" and said that she didn't see why it mattered.
My head knows that if she turns out to be the "one" I should be happy for him. My heart isn't so quick to follow suit. Being happy for him would mean rejoicing in the one thing I could never hope for, him being with someone else. . . Forever. Being a good person would mean wishing him well and moving on, but I might not be that good a person. I want to be, but it's harder than I could ever have imagined.
Maybe it's the fact that the older we get, our pool of choices shrinks as well. Maybe it's because to hope means that you can't really leave yourself room for doubt, because doubt is the enemy, doubt is defeat; so I kept hoping. For the last four days the sun has been shining and the temperature has been beautifully warm; but for me it's a little darker, and a little colder. That day that I never allowed myself to believe would come may be fast approaching, and while I've always believed in the happy ending, I'm finding it a bit difficult to throw a party for this one.
I promised myself that one day I would be happy for him. . . eventually. I'm not sure how long that would take, after all, who ever hoped for their perfect happy ending, for someone else.
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