Member-only story
Unbound
Accepting that I’m a lover, not a wife
“People only get really interesting when they start to rattle the bars of their cages.”
― Alain de Botton
I’ve had plenty of chances at “real” relationships. That is, relationships with good, solid men who had good, solid values. The first was Richard the banker. The second was Christoph the banker. The third was… who knows. Someone sensible, I am sure. Quite possibly a banker.
It’s become terrifyingly apparent that sensible and safe are not what I want at all. Turns out, I feel suffocated with a such a man, with such an arrangement. Turns out, I don’t want the Miata, the Jaguar, the money in the bank. I don’t want the suburb, or the shopping allowance.
Of course, I do want what everyone else wants: that perfect relationship with a person who suits me to a tee. A relationship that just makes sense, that erupts spontaneously, never loses its passion, and meets my every need.
Right.
My last serious boyfriend pursued me for four years. Any sensible woman would have married him. Especially at my age — with my attractiveness waning fast. My kids tease me about releasing such a good catch. I was “lucky” to meet him, “lucky” he was interested in me.
