May My Inspiration For Writing Settling Down Inspire Your (Single) New Year's Resolutions

"I'm always with him, because:  That. Is. What He Is. There. For."

As with all revolutions, this one started with a proverbial shot. Only this one emanated from a childhood friend's mouth. Someone that I had literally grown up with. 

Or so I thought.

Truth is, what started as a convo about friendship (ours), free time (the majority of it spent with her boyfriend) and working on the balance of the two, her angry words said way more.

About herself. What she wanted in life. And more importantly, what she was willing to sacrifice to get there. Unfortunately, this wasn't a place that I could comfortably stand anymore.

Indeed. I believe in love. Passionately.

I believe in romance. Of relationships. Of marriages, partnering up, of finding someone who will help you grow into your best self. In fact, the growth that I've experienced being married to my husband is something that I know I would have never experienced on my own.

I am IN love. Someone asked me that, quite randomly (and kinda frantically) at a nightclub a few years back. The answer is yes. Twenty-four years and counting (17 of them married), and I can honestly say that I did a surprisingly good job picking my mate.

It's what my husband 'is there for', that's a little different. His job is to challenge me to evolve into a better person, something he accomplishes on the daily -- instead of being a physical symbol that I am lovable. And there's a huge difference there. Because in order to get to this healthy place at all, I had to learn how to love myself first, instead of aimlessly looking for someone to complete me.

'Cause that never works.

The thing about settling, especially if you don't know yourself, is it won't even register at first. It's the long game where you'll miss out. Because, instead of waiting for Mr. Amaze-balls, someone who will help make you a better person, settlers desperately choose the wrong partner, simply because they don't want to be alone.

You don't want this life.

So how about you make it your New Year's resolution. To rejoice in being single. To embrace the fact that you're really okay being alone. Instead of being alone until the next guy shows up. Because, there's a difference.

If you need some help, a fictional guidebook if you will, I wrote Settling Down as my gift to you.

And while it was initially inspired by real life events, I was intent on writing a better ending.

Married? Yes. Dead? No.

You can call me many things. Organized. A bargain huntress. A purveyor of fine coffee. But a smug married, a la Bridget Jones's Diary? 

Never.

Indeed, I am lucky to be partnered up with an outstanding husband. The type of guy I think everyone should hold out for. He's supportive. A wonderful communicator. He challenges me to dream big and be a better person. And, did I mention he cooks?!

Sure, Andre's a great catch. But I'm not waving him over my head like some sort of trophy only awarded to those who get to Love. You know, that exclusive place where the sun always shines, the birds are always singing and all you need is each other. 

Apparently, I missed the memo that being a wife means I give up all life outside of the homestead. My college roommate's ex-boyfriend (who famously made my freshman dorm room a quadruple) remarked, after spying my husband and I at a nightclub, "What are you doing here? You're married."

Married? Yes. Dead? No.

And then there's you, the so called Sex and the City inspired Meetup group, who, as far as I can guess, used my wedded status to deny me admission. Pl-ease. You're not the first, and probably not the last, who pathetically thought I couldn't relate to the single girl perspective, because I'm not one myself. 

(And by the way, cocktails and fashion are far from the only things needed to recreate  any Sex and the City vibe. That sisterhood, unlike yours, was carpeted in compassion. No one booted Carrie because she was exclusive with Aidan. Or married to Mr. Big.)

Can't we just say enough to domestication discrimination?

Just because I'm not actively dating, does not mean I can't relate to the trials that come along with it. Phew. All my experiences, still a bit too close. The dude with the foot fetish. The one who stood me up. The one that HAD a girlfriend. Really, I haven't traveled that far from my seat in the 'therapy chairs', two odd Native American inspired seats, at a URI beach rental, where my cousin and I analyzed it all. 

And even though I'm married, I'm still looking out.

I know that BJ's Wholesale Club on a Sunday morn is prime 'stalking' ground for single men on the prowl. (I'm still pondering the why.) I also know that an intro salsa class is not only an outstanding place for men to meet women, but one of the best I've seen to be statistically outnumbered by them. You're welcome.

The funny thing about dating is that it's probably the most popular activity, that no one wants to do. I also know that being married, or at least being exclusive, is pretty much the goal everyone's working towards. So instead of writing me off, maybe you should hit me up for some tips. (Obsessively driving past his house won't make that cut.) 

I may be married, but I haven't forgotten where I came from. 

Believe me. I've tried.

Who Dat?

Last week I got an invite for Dawn Brown.

Who?

Exactly.

I'm tempted to return it to sender, adopting the same method that I use to deal with telemarketers who call and ask for Mrs. Brown.

"Nope, sorry, no Mrs. Brown here." Click.

But somehow I don't think the karma that comes with making a point to family is worth it.

Maybe they just forgot. It has been over twelve years since I made a formal announcement, complicated with the fact that I'm the only rebel in my family who has gone this route. Or maybe they're just tied deep in tradition and can't comprehend any other way.

Regardless, it's all my fault. I should have just bowed to convention and taken my husband Andre's name, back in 1999, when I got married. But call me crazy, after twenty-seven years, I was quite attached to my name--in its entirety.

Andre's thoughts on the matter? "We don't have to have the same last name for me to know you're my wife." Amen to that. Now if we could just work on the rest of the world.

Like Andre's grandfather who said, "Now, why did you have to go and do that for?"

But he gets a pass. He's 80.

Or the former friend who accused me of disrespecting Andre's honor.

She gets a pass too. Far from 80, but she is divorced, on marriage number two, and has decided to honor husbands, past and present, by keeping both of their surnames. 

No such scandal here.

My name? Easy. Same as it ever was. It's Andre's name that I'm really worried about; he's increasingly being addressed as---Mr. Keable.

And responding.