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.

Mothers Don’t Let Your Daughters Read Harlequin

Posted on 03/25/2008 by Jane Devin

I came late into my own sexuality, tumbling into it with all the confusion of a molested and battered child, and the shadowed blinders of a woman who thought her worth, even her ability to survive, was dependent upon making others, namely men, happy.

I never wanted to marry. While other girls were gracefully sashaying their Barbies down the suburban sidewalk aisle, I was dreaming the life of a writer, who had a small beach house overflowing with books, a mahogany desk littered with papers, a warm and tattered gray sweater, and two dogs named Holden and Phoebe. As I grew, so did the dream. I’d have friends, but not so many that they’d interfere with my writing – and I’d have a lover I’d see maybe two or three times a year – but they would be very passionate times, fueled by all the searing love letters we’d write to each other in-between writing Great American Novels.

Funny how things work out. I ended up pregnant and married in my late teens to someone who hated books, dogs, and romantic dreams. As I stood in the Justice of the Peace’s office, eight months pregnant, listening to the vows read by Mildred Pierce (yes, that really was her name), I had something of a breakdown. I began to laugh hysterically and couldn’t stop, a situation which only got worse when Mildred, in a sing-song whisper, sealed our vows with an “Indian blessing” that had something to do with the fruit of loins and a harmonious teepee.

Outside of the birth of my daughter, which was like a beautiful epiphany that reinvented and expanded my heart, the snapshots from 1981-1983 are sad and grainy – full of attempts that never hit the mark, and love that felt wrong and misplaced. I see me standing in the kitchen (wearing a skirt! I hated skirts!) making spring rolls and prime rib, neither of which he would enjoy because the first was too “ethnic” and the second was a waste of money. Me, hiding candy bars in my glove compartment because at 145 pounds, I was too “fat” for his liking. Me, constantly accused of infidelity and being checked on twenty times a day to ensure that I wasn’t fucking one of the neighbors in-between diaper changes, feedings, baths, housecleaning and cooking.

Me, in the midst of some cosmic accident where I ended up married to the enemy, feeling all at once adult and locked into a life of dread and spiritual poverty.

Of course, it ended quickly. The last pretenses were discarded the night he slapped me and threw my typewriter in the outdoor dumpster. I had one of my first freelance writing jobs, and an assignment that was due in the morning. He wanted me to put it away and watch television with him. When I said no, he lost it – and I lost the last of the love, or pretend love, that I had for him. I kept our daughter, and the son that I was two months pregnant with. He skipped out, never saw his daughter again, never met his son, and never paid child support.

It would only be after this, when I realized I was solely responsible for the outcomes of three lives – two of which were totally defenseless and dependent on me – that I was shaken into understanding that I had better learn who I was, and quickly. I could not afford to rent my dreams to the intentions of others, or to pretend my way through an existence with two children.

Sexuality was the reason I got pregnant, and the reason I had married a man I had nothing in common with, and in fact, sexuality had played a huge role in my life since I was first molested over the summer at age 10, when I was sent away by my mother to live with an ex-babysitter and her husband. It was a summer of horrifying and increasingly invasive moves (his) and increasingly creative, evasive tactics (mine), but like many children I stayed silent, fearing my mother would blame me, or that I would not be believed. I also took the molester at his word that he would kill my sisters if I told, so I didn’t. I swallowed the experience, and looked for answers elsewhere – which, in my case, meant books.

Being 10, I didn’t check out proper books on sex and sexuality from the public library – instead I stole them from the “free” book exchange that Washoe County offered in the library entrance. I scoured the jackets looking for any mention of sex, which is how I ended up reading “Last Tango in Paris” under the covers with a flashlight in my fourth grade year.

It’s how I learned that men were brutal and rough, and that women loved them despite, and maybe because of, their brutality. That, according to Harlequin and Harrold Robbins, fear was an aphrodisiac, and a bodice-ripping rape was an exciting and bloodless act that turned a faint-hearted girl into a swooning heroine.

When I was violently raped at 13, and left to lay in a puddle of blood, there was still nobody to talk to – I was alone in a repressive world where obedience to authority figures dominated any other consideration. I had already had my share of troubles earlier in the year for failing to tow the line, including a six-week stint at Wittenburg Hall Juvenile Detention Center, for possession of my sister’s boyfriend’s marijuana (I wouldn’t narc then, but I think it’s safe now). In my sixth week at Wittenburg, my jaw was broken in eighteen places and my teeth shattered by Dana Stevenson’s baseball bat. (She thought I stared at her boyfriend. I didn’t even know who he was, and was unlikely to be staring at boys in any case).

I bled for three days after I was raped. I took a lot of baths. I was afraid to look in the mirror. I was scared of what the wound might look like, and I was afraid it would never heal.

There was no one to talk to, but people talked to me.

Joy Pribyl and Marlene Cain were two girls Galen Miller told of his conquest, which is what the rape was in his 17 year-old mind. He was proud to have pinned me down to a boulder and taken my virginity, and he was proud of the blood, which he told them about, apparently with great relish and in detail.

“Like a stuck pig,” Joy chanted.
“Now you won’t think so much of yourself,” Marlene said.
“Fucking slut.”
“Whore.”
“Crybaby.”
“Loser.”
“You deserved it.”

And I wondered, really, if I did. I wondered if reading all those books – seeking them out like I had and devouring their contents – led Galen to stalk and then rape me. Did having all those words and scenes in my head translate into some signal I was subconsciously emitting?

What was it Tom Jones sang? “A woman wears a certain look when she is on the move, and a man always knows what’s on her mind”. Was I that woman? Was I on the move in some way? Were men only reacting to what I had read and learned and had etched into my mind? Even before the age of 10, wasn’t I thinking about things I shouldn’t have been thinking of? What was wrong with me? What did I do to cause this?

I was thirteen then, but I would be tormented by this major mind-fuck until I was in my mid-twenties.

I thought I was alone. I was not, but it would take me — and so many other women of my generation — years to find each other, and in the process, find ourselves.