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| Monday, September 13, 2004 06:34 AM |
| Rant 1 of a series |
| by poppy |
I have a problem with marriage. Maybe "problem" is too strong a way to describe it, but the only other way to put it is that I see marriage as something that only happens to other people, like cancer. A really fun thing to do if you're ambivalent about marriage, as I am, is to cohabitate with a significant other. At that point any near-stranger (or real stranger for that matter) feels qualified, nay obligated, to wonder about your marital/reproductive aspirations, the result of which is a near-constant barrage of knowing looks and "well how does he feel about that"s. All of this is not helped by the fact that I'm reading a book about the meaning of marriage in our culture (to make myself feel better about my marriage ambivalence), and every time I open it I feel I am being lectured to by someone much more cool and together than I am. The other night while reading I told Feanor we could not get married because this author was telling me I would be looking for external validation. He asked, validation of what? I'm not quite sure. Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe it’s a control thing. I resent the idea of my relationship being sanctioned by the state. I don’t think my relationship is anyone’s business but mine and my partner’s. I certainly chafe at some of the steps required to get a marriage certificate. The whole process seems a throw back practically to the good old days of dowries. I’ve been called many things in my life, worn many hats as it were, but none of them have ever said “property” and I pray one never does. So why, when reading books about marriage, do I feel like that, a commodity? So much of the fantasy portrayed in the stupid bridal magazines that are lying around our apartment (I’m in a wedding next fall, a three ring one at that, and I’m doing research) seem to suggest sacrifice of self, though to be fair I am being a bit sensitive about it at the moment and at this point I may be referring more to weddings than marriages. Being swept off your feet is nice I guess, but after a few seconds I usually beat the sweeper about the head to put me down. I certainly don’t feel like spending the rest of my life suspended.
Next on Rants: Bridal registries as fulfillment of oral desire, and why I’ll never take another's name.
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