Growing up in the South, it was custom to “prep” your daughter for marriage. This was as obvious as “debut parties” in high school and as subtle as the smile that was received when you announced (at any age) that you had a boyfriend. My experience growing up in this environment, however, was quite different. My mother had different beliefs. Though she was married, she took longer than her peers to walk down the aisle. Though she never entered the corporate world herself, she had the ambition of a CEO. As a result, the lessons she taught were more along the lines of:
“You don’t need to date just one person.”
“You are too young to have a serious boyfriend.” (At every age.)
“Go out, see the world, don’t tie yourself down.”
I listened.
Thirty-five years later, I am untied to property, legally single, and in the most substantial relationship of my lifetime. I believe this one is going to last a long time. And so, as a late bloomer in all of this, I’m learning how to balance my newfound partnership with that independent soul that was branded on me since I was a child. The irony is—I find it almost harder to fight for “me” and easier to succumb to “we.” Because I have been “me” for so long, sometimes, “we” is actually a lot more fun.
When my relationship was new, we spent the first few weeks and months trying to discover if this was going to become a meaningful part of our lives. It seemed perfectly natural during the early days to give each other space, do our own things. There was that exciting-yet-annoying feeling of wondering if we would see each other on Friday night.
Now, we’ve really grown into a couple. We spend the majority of our time together and that time seems natural. We talk about what “we” have going on each week out of respect for each other’s individual commitments as well as the ones we’ve made together. It’s a wonderful phase, but it’s also one where remembering “me” is the hardest.
PREVIOUS PAGE
