Why I Have Avoided Marriage and How Those Choices Formed My Life

And why I’m not alone in an increasingly un-tethered yet still deeply-connected world. I have the Perfect Man.

Sonja stood solemnly in front of her godfather, a great broad brick of man, as she expressed her love for the man who had entered her life via eHarmony several years prior. The ceremony was very small, a quiet Mid-May Sunday last year. Most of the hall was empty. Just a few very close friends were gathered on folding chairs to witness Sonja’s late-in-life vows. She’s almost sixty. She really likes being married. Nesting. Caring for someone.

I thought I would, too. Once.

I have a friend in Florida who is working on what might be her sixth marriage. One of the more recent was the very definition of a fiasco, to the point of threatening her life. Over the course of her remarkable existence, she’s produced progeny and raised a number who were not her own. She likes to nest. She’s also one badass broad. She found someone who loves that part of her as well as the nesting part.

But I finally found the Perfect Man.

Like several other friends of mine, over the years- and I am now 67- I built a home. A household. Said household was always supposed to have been a place where others also lived. At least one other person, a partner. As I got older, I traded off that idea for having others visit. Nope. Then, maybe other family members of someone I loved. At least, once in a blue moon to take out the gorgeous china-that-I-never-used because I didn’t want to chip it for the company-that-never-came-over.

I had plenty of dishes and pots and pans, extra towels and bedsheets, extra bedrooms and sleeping quarters, plenty of furniture. Furniture that gathered dust instead of the sagging butt dents that a beloved couch develops from years of use. Something wonderful about slipping a piece of plywood under the couch cushions from too many butts. All for a family (someone else’s in this case) that never showed up. Never even came over for a meal.

I nested. In fact I nested so well that when it came time a few years ago for me to start unloading the Gear-for-Dear-Family-That-Didn’t-Happen, I was shocked at how much I had prepared. The furniture sold fast at consignment stores because it was all in new condition. The dishes went fast at Goodwill because nobody had every used them. The pots…well. Beautiful nightgowns for a guy to slip or strip off, as the case may be. Brand. Fucking. New.

While I’m having a good laugh these days at having to buy back a few things from Goodwill because of the current Conditions, a part of me ruefully takes stock of What Was Never Meant to Happen.

Did I really, really, want that ring? Is that even the right question?

My generation of Boomers was the last, the way I see it, to wholeheartedly buy into the one-income family, 2.1 kids and picket fences. It was also the generation that would be famous for burning bras (which didn’t exactly happen but it made a great headline). We began the march towards feminism, as much reviled today for what it is as well as what it isn’t.

I recall before leaving home at sixteen that all the small town Southern girls were already naming their future babies. Jennifer was a popular one.

Our big have-to-have of the future husband? He has to wear a suit.

Collective sigh from all single male Medium readers. Things were so much simpler in the Sixties. Uh-huh.

At the time, none of our BFs wore suits. It was Florida, the 1960s. People wore hiphuggers, tie-dye tees and headbands. I guess we teenagers were hoping for a little more daddy than dude.

I escaped and joined the Army. When I came home for reunions, I found out that the only suit my high school boyfriend was wearing sported a rather distressingly bright shade of orange. Not only had he embezzled city funds, but these days he looks like the Great Pumpkin, having ballooned to nearly 400 pounds.

Guess we should have been a lot more specific about the “suit.”

Skipping out on marriage (nobody was asking anyway) and wearing Army green not only redirected my life and education but gave me options. I exercised as many as I could. The confidence the Army gave me led to international travel. Lots of it. Lots and lots of it . And to writing books, and being a prolific writer.

Along the way, the old refrain: “You’re pretty. Why aren’t you married?”

Collective, well-justified groan among all female Medium readers.

I had to wait until I found the Perfect Man. Stay with me here. It’s coming.

Having grown up watching my mother react horribly to being trapped in a loveless, sexless, alcoholic marriage, a bond which she referred to her entire life as “an armed truce,” I was hardly motivated to get hitched. Looked like hell to me.

The traditionally-trained, Disney girl part of me who so wished to be loved and cared for battled to the near death with the uber-independent, un-tethered part that badly needed to run free.

Armed truce. Funny. I have much the same thing Mom had, but it exists inside me.

The need to run free also had to do with some pretty brutal rapes, which led to my being truly uncomfortable with being touched. That’s never gone away. While I love great sex, that’s earned. Once earned, it pays off. But until then, Hands. Fucking. OFF.

Until I found the Perfect Man.

At at time when we have to nest in place as it were, and we must if we are to survive, some folks are toughing it out in place with physical abusers. Death rates are rising and partners and kids are taking it in the nose right when there’s no place to go.

Others, like my two friends above are in serious cuddle mode. While a part of me understands the urge to merge, and the deep need to feel connected while the world gets scary as shit out there, in here, at my big empty house, it’s blessedly quiet. I LOVE it in here, even stripped of all my belongings in preparation to be sold. I love living alone. Being alone. Mostly.

Apparently that’s becoming a lot more common. In my case, because I have found the Perfect Man.

Are we done with marriage? Not Sonja. Not others among my friends. But then there’s this thoughtful piece from Aeon:

Apparently eschewing the formal bonding is a thing all over the world. Kinda, everywhere. However bonding in and of itself is as popular as ever. What’s different is how that appears in your life, my life. Anyone’s.

I tried marriage. Once, briefly. Not as brief as some. Four years. It ended when I got tied of alcohol-fueled rages that ended with a fist into the drywall rather a bit too close to my head. There was an inevitability to that which I had no intention of discovering. That was 1998. Divorce and a bankruptcy in short order. Bankruptcy because the ex had medical plans. Solo, I didn’t. Lots of folks can relate.

Only twice since then I did I again try cohabitation. That first one worked hard to help me build my business, then slept with an ex-girlfriend when said business had me traveling. You learn. You cope. You. Fucking. LEAVE.

The last well. I’ve had plenty to say about the last. He wasn’t the Perfect Man. Perfect for a while. They all are.

Yesterday my Medium buddy Gabriela Rosales did me a lovely favor, introducing me to two other badass women:

One of them, Kerry Kerr McAvoy, PhD and I traded emails right away, sharing what we’ve experienced and the price we pay for being strong women, especially when it comes to dating. We laughed about writing a book together.

I’m not laughing about that, not really, because while the material is funny, it’s also a very sad statement about men at least in our lies. Her piece:

I can’t speak for anyone else, but while I do miss occasional (functional word, occasional) seriously good sex, and wouldn’t mind having a loving hug once in a while from someone to whom I give permission (tip of the hat here to Kris Gage) I am vastly happier living alone. It’s hard to explain, if you’re deeply traditional, or religious, or absolutely a dewey-eyed Disney Princess-Waiting-for-Her-Prince.

Speaking of Princes.

All my exes, including the last one who could on occasion be breathtakingly cruel, were princes in their own ways or I would not have loved them. To disregard the gifts they brought is to make the ridiculous claim that none of the breakups were my fault.

Here’s one way to get strong: Own your shit. ALL of it. Including having to wait for the Perfect Man.

The older I get, the stronger I’ve become. On one hand, there’s something wonderful about reveling in self-sufficiency, and not having to sell yourself down the Romance River to have company. This of course goes both ways. I got a note from Medium peep Dick Millet recently wherein he said that he has often found himself in a loving support role to potent women. It’s a place he clearly feels at ease. That’s a completely different kind of power, where there’s no need to compete or control or be first/foremost all the time. We share a dear friend who is indeed immensely powerful.

A Medium writer the other day asked if getting married at 39 was too old:

For Lana, this is important. What’s also key is that she and her partner loved, lived together and had kids long before they tied the knot. Something to be said for that. All those questions about whether or knot (knot a typo- don’t shoot me, I’ve been inside too long, can you tell?) it would work? Largely answered.

People who have strong religious or cultural beliefs may genuinely feel safer inside the formal cultural bonds of marriage. That said, when things fall apart or get dangerous, those very bonds may make it almost impossible for her to remove herself. When my brief marriage started to circle the drain I was very grateful than in his sober moments, the ex had the decency to agree to an amicable parting. Lots of people (men too) can’t get off that easily or safely.

That’s because they haven’t found the Perfect Man (or partner).

Yesterday I read a piece from another Medium peep Vicki Larson, who specializes in relationships, marriage and the like. She made some interesting comments about how the current Circumstances could well be, and probably are, changing how we understand marriage and cohabitation. Here’s her piece:

She brings up some potent realities. I have a long-term friend who has been married for some time to a man whom , during a lunch last fall, she admitted she hardly knows. They have vacationed together (fun fun), they spend a little time together at home when both aren’t traveling for work (fun fun). She noticed that recently they have been having some spikey issues when their work schedules have slowed down. Turns out his expectations for her role don’t align with hers. There was a plan to sell their huge house (with escape areas) and buy a big RV. I have to wonder how all that is going given our current reality. My guess? Knowing my friend and how powerful and independent she is, how strongly she feels about her personal space, that connection will need to be renegotiated.

That’s what Vicki is outlining. She has a point. One of her very reasonable remedies is to find a way to continue the connection but live apart.

My comment- and Vicki gets this, as do most of us- is that anyone’s ability these days to afford any kind of decent housing even under normal circumstances borders on the impossible. Separating a family, and those incomes, or placing undue burden on one partner or the other to help with upkeep of two housing arrangements, well.

But these days I have the Perfect Man.

Some of us need expansive space (my hand is up). I’d be happiest, frankly, if I could live like this woman:

I don’t have enough time to learn those skills, I can’t go around barefoot and I have to have access to modern healthcare. But damn, what an attractive idea. And, she gets lonely.

We are urged to merge. We want to. I sure do, on occasion. However it’s a scary world out there not just with the Conditions but irresponsible-men-who-still-don’t-wear-condoms, rising STDs rates in they very young AND the older.

Something to be said for safety.

So. Now we have it: The Perfect Man. Ready?

I give you Gerry Bear. He’s 34 this year. Told you I prefer younger men.

This is my life partner. He’s had that perma-grin since the first night he spent crammed against my boobs. Like Dick Millet, he’s happy to be in a supporting role. He gets my first kiss in the morning and he is my cuddlebuddy for midday naps. He doesn’t hit the wall, hurl insults or get drunk. Or sleep with ex-girlfriends. I’ve loved on him so much I’ve had to get him re-stuffed twice. He was with me when I was obese and never complained, and after I got skinny and never complained, and he never comments when I raid the chocolate almonds. He doesn’t tell me that I’m too old to do epic adventure travel, he doesn’t point out the wrinkles on my face or the slight sag over my knees. He patiently waits for me to wrap him up in my tired arms when I stumble in from Central Asia, or a long run.

I present to you: The Perfect Man.

There’s just one small (seriously small) problem: Gerry’s about as hung as a Ken doll from the 1960s. He could wear a skin-tight Speedo and you still wouldn’t know what religion he is.

Barring that…he’s perfect.