Between planning Meera’s shower menu (I have learned the mimosa ratio of champagne to orange juice from Haynes Thomas Taylor – is to taste, so I will be drinking champers straight up) and Possible-Mate-From-Chicago’s trip, I begin to feel a mini-panic attack mounting.
I am putting enough effort into Possible-Mate-From-Chicago’s trip to where he will have a nice time, but not enough to drive him away with overly-attentive Type A planning, like I do with my friends. My friends find my planning and attention --- sweet, charming, loyal, and reliable. Men, so I have been told, men who you are in various stages of dating, find that level of detail overwhelming and suffocating. So Desi Girl does not do that anymore!
When I stop planning and plotting for a moment, I have a thought – what if this works out. What if Possible-Mate-From-Chicago likes me as much as I like him? Then what? He meets my parents. I meet his. He meets my niece. I meet his. And we begin planning a wedding. Five hundred people come from my side, five hundred people come from his side (we’re Indian and Punjabi and yes 1,000 is an exaggeration, but not by much). Then we live together, happily, like man and wife.
But what about the so many things we have never talked about it. Like, where would we live? Does he expect me to move to Chicago? Is he coming to New York to check it out? Or just see me? Will we ever talk about this? And no offense to Chicago and its suburbs, but I love Minneapolis a little more. If it were not for the bleeping cold weather I’d consider moving back to Minneapolis before Chicago. MSP is a GREAT place for a family.
And I want to be a writer. How will I have time to do that and raise kids? Kids? Do I REALLY want them? Like yes, they are adorable and priceless and I am sure they make life worth living all over again. But I am so Type A, OCD that I fear in 10 years I will be uber-PTA President demanding that Huck Finn be put back on the school library bookshelves. What if I want to travel in 10 years? I am sure grade schoolers don’t want to see the pyramids. And, horror, what if my children don’t like shoes and prefer to … I don’t know … hike. And what about the way, sometimes, I shop a teensy-weensy bit too much? Damn those Ann Taylor mailer coupons.
This is why sometimes I think it is easier to just live in the dark. In the dark my imagination is honest with my anxieties and insecurities. In the dark I can deal with the loneliness that I rail against – but secretly, sometimes, is it true, I find comfort in being alone. I understand what it takes to exist as an island, to be single.
I can buy what I want (shoes, pants, bags). I can eat what I want (coffee for breakfast, Ruffles and vino for dinner). I can drag $50 worth of Target sundries 40 blocks on the train. There is nothing but the solitary fight to survive. Sometimes I don’t think the loneliness scares me as much as the loss of independence. Maybe that is why I fear relationships, falling in love again – it means becoming dependent on someone. I think I have been alone so long that I don’t know how to function in a unit.