THESE BOOTS BE MADE FOR STAYIN’
Recently, I told my Boy I didn’t think I’d had a heart before now. He said he didn’t believe me. I guess what I meant was, that I didn’t think I’d had the ability to understand emotions, ‘love’, and all those strangled-furry-deep-types-of-stuffings that so many people seem to not only ‘get’ but carry out as well.
When I was younger, I dated my best friend for a couple of months and realized I couldn’t bring myself to make an emotional commitment to anyone. Luckily my best friend remains my best friend to this day…unluckily, the two of us have spent years of our adult lives living without emotional stability and comforted by being commitaphobes.
I’m not entirely sure how I managed to keep the majority of my feelings locked up from every relationship I’ve had since I was thirteen or fourteen, but I have’ta say I did a darned good job. In hindsight, I should have written a book catering to commitaphobes; explaining the benefits of substituting stability for various other passions (read Photography, Water Sports, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Eight Ball, Booze, etc.). My near perfect metaphor took place in college when Bob Marley was all the rage. The big hit was ‘Is This Love’, but my favourite was ‘Waiting in Vain’ (which, unless you were from one of the more faceless frats on campus, is a much better song anyway, in my opinion).
I’d stitched out my own scarlet letter ages ago, showcasing my status as the chick who would never be in love/lust/marriage/babies/anything. At thirty-one, I reached the point where I realized I had missed out on ever being in love and I honestly didn’t care. I didn’t care because I met someone who had pushed me so close to that cliff of ‘being in love’ and then, expectedly, ditched me. Everyday felt like I was seriously drowning in my own efforts to breath and all I wanted was to pull myself up and away from the droplets of interest wrung out by this someone.
In one chokingly woe-is-me conversation with a friend, I laid out all the clichés of ‘What’s wrong with me?’, ‘Why can’t anyone care about me?’, blah, blah, blech. My Pal, who is very wise, clued me in on what I was feeling wasn’t love, but lust. ‘Lust’, he said, ‘is like a wildfire, burning everything and every chance of love in it’s path. Love maybe starts out slower and then builds; gathers oxygen and elements to make it stronger.’ Words of wisdom, Lloyd, words of wisdom. So, yeah, based on all that, I pretty much gathered I’d never been in love. Ever. And, after my agonizing healing process from lust, I didn’t wanna ever be in love. I mean, if you don’t know what you’re missing, how could you genuinely hope for something or put any substantial amount of effort into finding it?
For a long time, I regarded love as Karen Carpenter’s voice or photographing Water. Nothing human-related ever seeped into my mind when the word ‘love’ drudged itself up during conversations. Plus, love went along with marriage and those two words equalled ‘being owned’, right? Together, love and marriage meant becoming tied-down, thinking for two, always having to check in, and a load of other boring things which would never fit into my lifestyle of independence bordering on selfishness.
Whelp, here’s what I’ve learned-love is kinda what you and the object(s) of your affection(s) make of it. When I finally learned to trust my Boy completely, I saw that he would never attempt to ‘own’ me because he really wants me to be happy as he does love me, and I trust this. Being independent means a lot to both the Boy and myself, but that doesn’t have to take away from anything we want to experience or feel for each other. I do love him and I know this because I trust him and sincerely believe in our relationship to the point where I don’t have to question anything. Boy Wonder’s never given me a reason to doubt him and now I can see that if you do claim to love someone you have to love all parts of them in order to trust yourselves and your relationship.
Aaand, it’s with this understanding, re-evaluation, Acme manufactured lightning bolt, and a hint of chocolate almond & cashew iced cream that I accepted my Boy’s marriage proposal over to the California Coast last week. As if I didn’t have enough reasons to dig this dreamy Boy, he marched me up to the Coastline for a hike through some of the gnarliest Edward Goreyest trees, and asked me to throw down a lifetime of cooking, creating, laughing, video games, Art, and adoration. The Boy’s got skillz, so I wasn’t about to deny either of us the opportunity to miss out on his Miso Soup and my Spiced-up Salsa.
In true Sara-is-so-romantic-and-this-moment-should-be-met-with-the-proper-attire fashion, I got engaged wearing my Caterpillar hiking boots. It’s the little ironies, really, which make my life seem like a humourous shaking of the head. In the true fashion of the Boy, I’m sure he probably didn’t notice because he was happy we both finally met and continue to stick around each other. Or he did notice the boots, thought it was cute, and is plotting out ways to ‘borrow’ them.
Match made in soles, yo.