The Woman I’m Going to Marry

Posted on 02/05/2011 by Jane Devin

The other day at Starbucks I had an unexpected conversation with a stranger. Afterward, I wanted to run home and tell my partner all about the beautiful, older woman who had just finished a meeting with her husband’s younger side dish. I had the same urgent feeling of wanting to share earlier this month, when the moon was a peculiar shade of bright yellow, hanging over a purple mountain. “You’ve got to come see this,” I wanted to say to someone. Of course, there was no one there. Instead, I walked up the gravel road to return to my empty hotel room and another chapter that needed finishing.

I was born independent, or so the story goes, but that’s not really the whole truth. I’m 90% water and earth and 10% fire and steel, (give or take a few points in either direction depending on the circumstances), but it’s the 10% that keeps me single. The same fiery passions and beliefs that initially draw certain people also tend to bring about the end.

That 10% has also saved my life, not once, but several times over. Fire and steel gave me a spine and lent me bravery when needed. They allowed me to stand strong and survive crises. They’ve given me clarity and truth when winds and waves left things muddy. For these reasons — and simply because I like this part of myself — I refuse to devalue it, especially in the name of something I feel so passionately about: Love.

I believe love should be fearless. It should be able to withstand scrutiny and hold its own in a debate. It should have more answers than questions and more courage than cowardice. Love, to me, should be a deeply felt conviction — something worth standing up and fighting for no matter what the opposition is or how strong in numbers. Love should seek to loosen restraints, not create them. It should actively nurture all that it promises — it should be fiercely loyal, encouraging, and honest. Love should seek, above all, to be genuinely happy in the long-term. Sweeping things under the rug or ignoring the elephants in the room can only ever be a temporary convenience, and when the pile grows high or the room gets crowded, there’s little space left for love — instead, there are resentments over things not said when they should have been said, and open wounds that have grown past the point of healing.

I believe in love so strongly that I refuse to settle for less than what I believe it could be if I met my match — someone who believes with as much conviction as I do in the sanctity of love, its power and courage, and its ability to raise people up to the highest plane possible.

After my recent experience with fake love, I learned that I’d rather be alone with my ideals than together with someone whose “I love you” (at least towards me) meant as much to her as “I’m hungry, pass the potatoes.” I don’t want to be in someone’s life as a convenience, a stopgap, or an in-between lover. What I want — and am ready for — is the real thing.

I want marriage, traditional or not, with all the bells and whistles — the tough times, the great times, the waves and rifts, and the romance. I want the mingled laundry, cosigned holiday cards, daily routines and occasional surprises of a loving partnership. I want to be someone’s cheerleader and have them be mine. I want to look at the same person every day and feel like I understand and love them just a little bit more than I did the day before. I want to share all of me with someone and know that they love me enough to do the same.

I have friends who believe, passionately, that you can manifest the lover you want by consciously envisioning, in great detail, who that person is while still leaving the door open to other possibilities. I’ve always challenged the “think it and it will come true” philosophy, but so many of my friends insist that it works that I’m willing to give it a try. Here is the love that I’m manifesting:

For now, I’m going to call her Kim. She may be an attorney, but not a rich one because she does a lot of pro-bono and charity work. Or she may be in some other field she enjoys and volunteer only on occasion. She’s taller than I am, somewhere between 5’8” and 5’10”. She’s not thin or heavy, but she’s got a strong build. She likes animals, especially dogs, but limits herself to two or three. She prefers summer to winter and likes to spend time outdoors. She watches TV on occasion but isn’t addicted to it, and her favorite music is from the ’60s and ’70s. She’s got a great sense of humor that’s balanced with her ability to be serious. She’s out of the closet and feels no need to hide our relationship from friends or family. She’s a thinker, not just a reactor, and she’s also capable of spontaneity.

She’s kind but in a genuine, heartfelt way—not in the way learned from Ms. Manners books and social convention. She’s trustworthy. When she says something, she really means it — her words truly are her thoughts and can be counted on to reflect what she authentically feels.

When I ask her what she wants — out of life, our relationship, or from me — she knows herself well enough, and trusts me enough, to answer. She doesn’t respond with “I don’t know, what do you want?”

She’s not a coward and she’s willing to name her beliefs even if they are ones I don’t share. She knows that love can accommodate differences of opinion as long as they aren’t harmful to the relationship.

She accepts me for me but understands that, like her, I’ll always be a work in progress. I’ll grow and evolve and occasionally change my mind or rethink my beliefs. She will, too, and that’s part of what will make our relationship exciting — we’ll grow together and teach each other new things along the way.

She isn’t intimidated by the part of me that’s fire and steel, because some part of her will be the same. She’ll understand that a roaring fire doesn’t mean the house is burning down and that steel isn’t used only to make swords. She’ll respect my passions because she’ll have her own.

Compromising is a natural part of a relationship, but neither of us will demand the other change some essential part of herself as a condition of love.

Our weaknesses and strengths will complement each other. She’ll be good at paperwork things, like insurance and balancing the checkbook, and I’ll keep the refrigerator stocked and the kitchen clean. She’ll handle car repairs, and I’ll take our pets to the vet.

She’ll understand that being able to contribute to her happiness is important to me. I derive a lot of pleasure from making someone I love happy, and she’ll let me do these things without feeling like she has to “earn it” or like there has to be a quid-pro-quo trade. She’ll let me make her dinner or help her with a project because she knows that doing nurturing and helpful things makes me feel good. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t want to do them. Likewise, she’ll add to my happiness by doing the things that are in her heart to do.

We’ll be strongly bonded, but not one of those couples that always have to do things together. We’ll recognize the value of having separate interests and occasional times apart, because when we come back together we’ll be recharged and have new experiences to share.

I don’t know if “Kim” will come to life in any tangible way — she may remain a figment of my imagination — but writing about my ideal partner, especially in light of my recent disastrous and painful relationship, has helped me clarify what being in love really means to me. It’s too beautiful and special a thing to waste, or at least it should be, and I’m determined that if there’s a next time I fall in love (I don’t take it for granted) that it will be with a strong, loving, kind, slightly fiery, honest person — the right person for me.

Love Should Be Like The 4th of July

Posted on 02/14/2009 by Jane Devin

It’s not the rampant commercialism of a weird holiday with its roots in pagan rituals and Catholicism, or the glittery sap of Hallmark cards, or even the waxy chocolate candies in heart-shaped boxes that makes me dislike Valentine’s Day. It’s not because mid-February is like December-minor for single people, or because I feel sorry for kids who are crushed on holidays like this, which end up being grade-school popularity contests. It’s not even because my favorite blogs become filled with sappy stories examining the meaning, the culture, the history, and the power of love.

That’s all true, and enough of a reason to feel a little queasy on February 14th, but my complaint about Valentine’s Day is that it’s not more like the 4th of July.

There are no great expectations on July 4th. You can have a picnic, fire up the BBQ, or stay at home. You can eat off paper plates, have desert or skip it, and no one thinks you’re doing it all wrong or missing the point.

You can take some wine up to the roof, or go lay out on a blanket under the stars to watch the fireworks — you can even go to bed early, hoping to fall asleep before the thunderous claps hit the sky– and no one wonders what your choice really means. No one feels compelled to have a deep, meaningful talk about where this relationship is heading, or asks whether you’d be open to adopting babies from a third-world country sometime in the near future like, say, this time next year. The green-eyed monster of insecurity is less likely to bite on the 4th of July than on a day that’s all wrapped up in lace, lingerie, and love.

And if you start dating someone on July 1st, it’s unlikely that you’ll hurt their feelings if you say you already have plans for the 4th. You can even say you’re just not into the 4th of July without provoking a silent warning flag, which will come out waving on the next date, when you’re hit with all sorts of questions meant to determine your romantic proclivities. Do you like long walks on the beach? In the rain? How do you feel about cats? Tiffany’s? Cuddling? Would you get a tattoo of my name if we were together a year? Bring me breakfast in bed?

Valentine’s Day is romantic hell for daters. It’s sitting by candlelight and being waylaid by questions like, “What’s the longest you’ve ever dated someone, and why did you break up?” It’s hearing stories about boundaries and broken hearts, or (and this really did happen to me once) getting a mini-lecture on why tiger lilies were a bad choice, because they were living things with feelings and didn’t deserve to be killed. It’s having someone try to decipher what you meant by signing your card “fondly”, when what you really meant was “fondly”.

A day about love — in fact any beautiful day – should be more like the 4th of July. No heady expectations, no heart shaped boxes, no long-winded declarations, but a picnic basket under a warm summer sky. A chain of wildflowers placed around a naked neck. A barefoot slow dance in the grass. A long kiss, bare legs entwined, under the the moon and fireworks. Or a casual night at home, with a roaring fireplace, or with all the windows open and a slight breeze blowing, soft blues tunes filling the house as a favorite meal is made or a warm bath is run.

Lovers shouldn’t need a special holiday to be loving, romantic, or particularly good to one other, especially a day that isn’t spontaneous, but dictated by tradition. Personally, I don’t find Valentine’s Day to be all that romantic, but a barefoot, casual, starlit 4th of July? That’s just beautiful any day of the year.

Now that it’s legal, and I have grown up, I think…maybe. Someday.

Posted on 05/18/2008 by Jane Devin

They hang in my closet as a reminder, a small torment, and something of a life jacket. I wore them when I last fell in love, hard and with almost reckless abandon, several years ago.

There was something about this particular pair of jeans that made me feel less humanly flawed and more invincible. In the smoky lower level of the Metro, where the music played a little softer and the lights stayed dim, these jeans moved me to the dance floor, where Aretha sang “If you want my lovin’ if you really do, don’t bother askin’ baby you know I’m gonna give it to you. . .” . Sheila was particularly beautiful that night, and it was easy to forget everything else, like how I normally don’t dance in public, how chaotic my life was at the time, and how different Sheila and I were in so many ways. Love doesn’t see impediments, but possibilities. Love doesn’t plan for failure, but creates the circumstances for success. So we would dance, and I would inhale the sweet smell of her neck, and forget everything else that wasn’t in the circle of glowing possibilities.

I wore those jeans weeks later when I leaned against the door in her bathroom, conversing as I watched her shave one leg, than the other. She had the sexiest iliotibial tract I’d ever seen, and the strong legs of a dancer. When she laughed, she had a tendency to throw her head back and close her eyes, deepening the hollow between her collarbones. I loved to watch her laugh.

Neither Sheila’s body nor her psyche carried any obvious scar tissue. She was younger than I was, and not just in years. Her eyes were bright with untried ideals. She ran, she played tennis, she skied, she had never smoked, or flirted with drugs. She had never had or raised children. She had never chased after a professional career, or lived outside of Minnesota. She drank herbal tea, and wore vanilla-scented lip gloss. She preferred comedies to dramas, and upbeat pop music to old love-and-lost ballads. Her closets were full of purples, reds, greens and yellows. Her mind wasn’t filled with stories, but with expectations and hopes. She sprung up in the morning, happily ready to experience whatever the day held. There was no hesitancy, no dread, none of the panic and worry that is endemic to those who of us who have beat a path to hell and back so many times we’ve memorized the travel guide.

In the bliss of fresh infatuation, I looked at this bright-eyed, optimistic, and perpetually sensual woman and thought of change. Sheila, like everyone else I’ve ever been with, was not a “you do your thing, I’ll do mine” lover. She wanted a life partner. Someone to share her days, nights, and experiences with. And because she lightened my heart and made me laugh – because she was incredibly open – because she made me feel sexy and loved and protective and generous – because she was full of pleasant surprises and kept me guessing – because she didn’t nag at me (much) for my bad habits – I thought of change and possibilities. Maybe, I thought, I don’t need to be so much of a hermit. Maybe I don’t have to write every night of my life. Maybe I can learn to like Saturday evening club-hopping and Sunday afternoons at Home Depot. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to go jogging after dinner. These things, in exchange for a loving relationship – for all the sparks and fires and afterglows – could not be that bad.

I never considered asking Sheila to bend to my style of life. I’ve never thought of asking someone to be a hermit with me, or to eschew the social scene or ski hill for evenings spent at a desk or weekends spent with books. Somehow I suspect that the answer would be no. I even hope it would be, because I really enjoy the time I spend alone. I am very much a “you do your thing, I’ll do mine, let’s meet after” kind of lover. It seems, though, that not many people share this philosophy, and those who do aren’t generally monogamous. (I would make a lousy polyamorist, not because I have any great moral convictions, but because I really don’t like to share the people or things I love with people I don’t love – and because I have the kind of terrible curiosity that would have to know every single detail – and because, really, although I may not hold onto someone tightly, I do have a possessive streak).

I knew, given the divide between Sheila’s expectations and my life as it existed in reality, that I would have to be the one who changed. For her part, Sheila was naive, but nonetheless brave to take me on. I am, if I haven’t made it clear, not the easiest person to love. I am restless and jaded in so many ways. At turns, I am easygoing or moody. I am overly sensitive to noise, other people’s moods, and environment. My head is often in the clouds. I can talk a mile a minute or be silent for hours. I’m domestic only to the extent of doing what’s required for comfort. I never run out of coffee, but I don’t care if my checkbook is ever balanced. Trucking in practicalities doesn’t come naturally to me, since I so much prefer nearly every other alternative.

Still, there she was. Beautiful, glowing, and willing to love. All I had to do was bend. Expand. Set aside some things, and move forward with others. All I had to do was change.

Incredible months passed before my restless spirit began to bleat and scream steadily. I wanted to write more often. Sheila suggested that I write for one hour everyday, in the morning before I went to work. I wanted time to myself. She didn’t understand why my commute didn’t count. I wanted to skip a concert by her favorite band and suggested she go with a friend instead. Why couldn’t I just go and enjoy doing something she wanted to do? What would her friends think? Didn’t I love her anymore?

As the minor arguments stepped up, it wasn’t hard to pull the cynical piece of self I’d hidden out of reserve. Sheila had known only the smallest slice of a huge world. I would be her “best lover ever” for the time, but I knew that in the future there would be another best ever, and likely (hopefully) it wouldn’t be someone who was as skittish and cynical about commitment as I was.

I began to feel, more and more, like the big bad wolf to Sheila’s innocent Red Riding Hood, and because I loved her, I began to rewrite the story, imagining Sheila at her happiest not with me, but with a nice woman. One who taught grade school and volunteered her holidays at the women’s shelter. Someone who was supremely stable – who saved for yearly vacations to Mexico and used her Costco card to buy sensible things in bulk, like batteries and paper towels. Someone who had a collection of sweat suits for the right reason, and who enjoyed having 50 friends over for a barbeque. Not someone like me, with a penchant for rainy days, musty books, and a reclusive spirit.

We dated for a little under two years, which was just long enough for us to know that we were opposites in too many ways to be compatible, except that I realized it first and most insistently. It was painful in the way that any significant loss is, and more so because I was acutely aware of everything that I was losing. Not just the arguments (which I lost even when I won), but the love of someone who would never consciously seek to hurt me. The love of someone who let me love her, and who never doubted that either of us were deserving of whatever good things came our way. In losing Sheila, I was losing my innocent side – the bright-eyed and better part of me that didn’t see impediments, but possibilities, and that creates the circumstances for success – no matter how hard, how difficult, or how impossible.

We sat together under the trees at Calhoun Lake, my jean covered leg next to her bare one. She wore my favorite pair of sandals, and her nails were painted a pale shade of pink. Her wavy hair fell into curls with the humidity, and a lone ringlet fell over her left cheek. She looked so beautiful that night, lit by the reddish tones of sunset, that I almost stopped the inevitable.

Inside, the spirit continued to scream. Freedom, free, alone, write, be, think, dream. A split occurred, and another part of me screamed back in rebellion. Love, passion, her, companionship, sex, laughter.

Freedom won. And I have had my alone time, a surfeit of dreams, and there are reams of words – millions of words– that I have spent in the last ten years.

I have taken the jeans out of the closet, and with them, me.

The revolution continues.