Thirty. As if staring at it from a spying glass, it looks so far away and remote. Yet it looms larger and becomes far more threatening with each whisper that assails my ears.
Isnt this supposed to be my year of gentle revelations? Where I am young and carefree, able to get a footing on this ever shifting planet? Live through the cycle of struck with love, being in love, falling out of love, breaking love, and then picking up the pieces of love? And it then becomes a bellowing shout of…
Now it stands as a terrible thing. An echoing call of dreariness, and rather than feeling light and free this number only weighs more on my already aching shoulders. Are our twenties the new thirty? Are we girls in our twenties to be labeled spinsters and just buy twenty cats and call it a day?
Marriage is supposed to be a talk of joy, a natural thing that happens in due time without rush or feeling of anxiety, guilt, nothing hardly negative yet I am beginning to truly detest the word. A tight feeling in my chest, shortness of breath and nausea assails my body whenever am cornered by family, friends, strangers and nobodies chanting… why arent you married? Why arent you engaged? why are you single? Youre not getting younger… what are you waiting for?
Am waiting to be swept off my feet, am waiting for the sharpest of arrows to pierce through my disbelieving chest so that my heart would jolt and pick up its pace, pumping all the cliches and butterflies and heart shaped boxes of chocolates with a bouquet of roses. I want to be consumed while consuming my hearts desire, be so wrapped up in him that’ll take more than a cro-bar to separate us. I want to take my time in this maze, let my fingers run through and memorize these walls textures, be at peace with all my angles and demons, understand the sinner and the wayward saint, understand my path so that when I end at the heart of that maze I am ready for my beloved.