I’m not a fan of “my prince will come” blogs. After experiencing 7+ years of youth group, I could recite that lesson in my sleep. I also cringe while reading the “I’m single. What’s wrong with me?” blogs. I apologize for my generalization… but they’re often written by adorable blonde girls with Disney smiles. So, I found myself between a rock and a hard place when I felt the need to write this blog. I’ll explain why later.
A few nights ago, the five Doulos ladies felt the need for a chocolate/popcorn/girly movie date. I’m confident we chose wisely with When Harry Met Sally. Meg Ryan at her best. Billy Crystal when he had hair. Perfect.
My favorite line of the whole movie is during one of those old couple interviews when the wife says, “And right then I knew. I knew the way you know about a good melon.” She was talking about how she knew her husband of 50+ years was “the one” when they met. I’m not perplexed about love at first sight, I'm perplexed about the “when you know, you know” theory.
The morning after our movie night, Julie and I were standing in the produce section of our local grocery store, and she asked me to grab a cantaloupe for our fruit salad. Shortly after, I found myself standing before a perfectly stacked wall of cantaloupes having a mid-20s crisis.
I’ve never in my life been able to pick a good melon. I’m a great cook and logical grocery store shopper. I mean, I don’t panic in the baking aisle when my recipe calls for cups and the product only lists ounces, I don’t stress out when I need to choose the best onion in the stack, and I can tell you the difference between baking soda and powder. However, melons evade me.
So there I was—center of the Spanish produce section, watching the sad, sad story of my road to spinster-ism play in my mind. I could see Julie come towards me out of the corner of my eye from the tomato stand.
“I can’t pick a cantaloupe. How will I be able to pick a husband if I can’t pick a cantaloupe?”
I’m 25 and according to one of the Peruvian men at our church I have 5 more years and “That’s it.” That’s what? I implode? I expire? I receive my village-issued red “U” for “unmarriable” to wear on my chest?
I can sit here and honestly say that being 30 and unmarried is not a termination of life, but I’d be a big fat liar if I said I didn’t believe this to be true sometimes. Abby, you’re spending 25/26 out of the country, your 22-24 was mostly about work and before that school. Tick-tock-tick-tock… Don’t judge. If you’re a female I can almost put money on the fact that you’ve thought it, too.
I get a lot of questions from people I meet in foreign countries about why I’m not married or why I don’t have a boyfriend. Shock and judgement is universal in all languages. I give them the “I’m going to be gone for a year, what kind of girlfriend would I be?” answer and explain that this year is about something much bigger than my relationship status. But every once in a while, they need some extra explanation.
Sometimes I have produce-section-crisis’ and need some extra explanation, too. But then Julie gives me a sideways furrowed brow and tells me to put down the one with the green skin and smell the stem of the one next to it. [Ok, so this analogy just took a turn for the weird. There will be no smelling of potential husbands…mmm, maybe in some circumstances….anyway…]
It’s not always healthy to count on your friend’s discernment when making life-altering decisions, though it may help some. And Julie has a life of her own to live instead of accompanying me on dates.
This brings me back to that rock and hard place I lamented about earlier. My “rock” is the true, but routine lesson that’s been taught to young women in girls-only talks for ages. I agree that we should take comfort in resting in God’s plan for our lives. I agree that He should be be all I need.
And my “hard place” is the vulnerability of honesty that I view as desperate whining when I admit worry. It tastes bad even when I think about it. Can’t I just not pick a side? Norway is neutral and people seem to like them.
I told myself I wouldn’t ever write the “single World Racer, but that’s ok!” blog that you see too often. Let’s all be honest with each other and cut the crap. It’s hard to live your 20s surrounded by bridesmaid dresses and baby showers and not feel like you’re the fat guy trying to finish the marathon.
However, (and that’s a BIG however) I will not waste away years of my life wallowing in my self-pity. Melon decisions shouldn’t be stressful. It’s not worth the worry. Now that I think about it, this isn’t an actual “decision” at all. It’s not a 70s dating game show. It’s not really up to me. But we’ll see. In the mean time, I’m learning to chill out in the grocery store.
