lovefest: on partnership.

My dear friend Delia*, whose blog is floating between myspace and nablopomo and looking for a new home (stay tuned), has been doing some very intriguing musing about partnership. I was going to link to the particular posts in question, but then NaBloPoMo went offline (it being the end of the "Mo") and it may be gone for good ('till next year?).

Anyway, Delia's thread began with the occasion of her parents’ 37th wedding anniversary. Kudos to them for 37 years together, and snaps to still being together period, however many years, with today’s rate of divorcing parents. My father and mom were barely together long enough to make me. I’m somewhat of a souvenir along that short and strange trip they took together.

Delia mused, “37 years....could i be with anyone for 37 years? i haven't even been with myself for 37 years . . . Do I want a partner? Do I even want one and if I do is it because that's how I've been conditioned? What happens then to all the people in my life I get to spend one-on-one time with? There's always going to be that sacrifice ...”

Later she wrote: “I have met people (and I am one) who seem to have lost a part of themselves by choosing to be with someone else. It's great if you find someone you click with, if you enjoy doing the same things. If you are yourself but an even ‘better’ version of yourself, with (not literally with all the time though) this person.”

And, finally, in a later post, she wrote: “People, stop having kids, stop attaching yourself to just one person, try to meet and open yourself up to as many people as possible. Get new points of view, get new histories. Give people who may scare you some love. Because if they're scaring you, they were sacred once.”**

Despite having all the hetero trappings of marriage and bourgeoisie settling, I often have wondered about the same things. I don’t doubt that Dave is the person I am meant to share my life with, and that my life is infinitely better with him in it. But, too, sometimes I’m disappointed with myself for turning out so . . . normative/conformative.

For a while there, I honestly thought I might end up somewhere else entirely. When I was still living in New York, I pictured this entire other future for myself, which involved—above all other persons, places, or things—Wife. Seriously. Everyone thinks we were joking, and most of the time we were, but on a deeper level I wasn’t joking in the slightest. I imagined making a commitment to her, for the REST OF MY LIFE, in the way I had yet to make a commitment to anyone else, and letting the boys/men be the ones that came and went—yes, yes, very Sex and the City.

I guess even this innerlife*** of mine misses Delia’s intent—to “stop attaching yourself to just one person, try to meet and open yourself up to as many people as possible”—but what can I say, I’ve always been a serial monogamist. I’m one of those girls that always likes to have that other girl best friend. Always. In preschool, it was probably Oh Sook. In elementary school, it was both Julieann and Tracy. In high school, it was an elaborate square dance over the years between Karen, Lei, and Jennifer. But from the first day of college on, it was Laura. And it remains Laura. And it will always be Laura. And with Laura, the love reached new heights (LINK HERE). I even wrote bad poetry in honor of her like this one:****

For Laura, Amazon Queen of my heart. April 24, 2005.*****

What are we now
but Amazon Queens
double-daring adulthood
to take one step closer.
While around us everyone falls
into formation—
(suburbs, weddings, china, dogs, babies)
—we stand still
our “diamond”-studded tiaras glittering fierce,
bared breasts heaving in ruffles and lace,
and we pretend, for us,
it will never be so.

This one last year, we can leave it alone.
we can pretend
I’m not choosing that cookie-cutter too,
that I’m not leaving,
and that our exquisite partnership—
(wifeys, twins, roommates;
the fiercest party-throwers in all the land;
you, the vessel of my every secret;
we, the Amazon Queens)
—will go on and on and on.

Sometimes I wish it really could go on.
We could be celibate of heart,
like nuns pledging themselves to Jesus.
Only I’d give you title to my heart,
and you’d make me Duchess over yours.
And we’d always have the Boys—
or, as we grew older, the Men—
and we could flirt, kiss, fuck, whatever,
then crawl home to cuddle on the couch
and say: oh, wifey, how was your day?

But instead we’ve got this year
and these wispy, nebulous feelings
that don’t fit into stanza form.

Later today, I’ll tell you
I tried to write you a poem this morning.
There were words, lots of words,
but none that capture the elusive You and Me,
reigning Amazon Queens of hearts,
stepping back into our lush kingdom,
bows drawn
ululating
ready to defend whatever it is we have
from even words.

You can tell how much I miss her. I blog about her all the damn time.

Obviously I’ve come to some sort of peace on the matter, having so invested in the institution of marriage-and-moving-to-a-suburb-and-learning-to-cook-and-forgetting-to-leave-the-house. And my hubby, well he’s both hubbahubba and the best damn hubby there ever was, and I haven’t looked back once about weaving our lives together. In fact, I welcome with open arms and a brand-new affinity for aprons that normative conformativity in all its glory: suburbs! cooking! pets! kids! fences! houses!

To each their own, and so forth . . . But I still think Delia’s premise is interesting, and smart, and good to think about.

I’m sort of rambling. You’re probably wondering where all this came from. Let’s just leave it with I shared some very good news today with Laura, and she had The Best Possible Reaction Ever in the History of Reactions, and for that I love her and miss her all the more.

Oh—and P.S., Internet?—I totally get her for New Years Eve this year, and I am beyond thrilled.

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* You should totally read her blog, wherever it comes to rest. It is smart, it is funny, it is heartfelt, it is political, it is intruiging, and above all other things it is passionate.

** By “sacred” I think she meant “scared.” But I sort of liked the typo too.

*** Innerlife is a term I steal from my wife. We’re married so what’s mine is hers and what’s hers is mine, BUT as an editor/writer I always feel compelled to properly credit the source.

****Though, of course, bad poetry hardly can compete the Laura cake, the recent mix “Songs to Wear Pants to,” and the collective effort of the annual von Hottie calendar.

***** Again, it may be crap, but please be sportmanlike and don’t steal my bad poetry.