No Rush

It’s been a trend in my family to marry young. Not because we’re strangely religious or conservative, but because they knew what they wanted; kudos to them. All of my siblings, their spouses, and my parents tied the knot by 21, the youngest being 18. When you know, you know; or so I’ve heard..

Although sometimes kidding, I think people make assumptions that I’ll follow suit.  Recently I’ve received comments about my love life; or you could say non-existent love life.  Such as: “When are you going to get married?” Somewhat jokingly. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” “We like all the in-laws so far, don’t mess it up.”

This frustrates me. Let me just hop in my time machine and let you know when the special day is. What’s it to you if I don’t have a boyfriend? And clearly it’s my duty to make sure that everyone approves.


Family gatherings can be difficult, I won’t deny it.  Being the only one lacking a significant other can be lonely. Everyone has their partner for games while I tag along with a couple of my choosing.  Everyone having that partner’s shoulder to cry on at our Grandpa’s funeral.


Let me be clear, I don’t think poorly of those who marry young, whatsoever. Not that it would matter if I did.

What I do have a problem with is people making comments that make an eighteen-year-old woman feel pressured to get a move on; in any way, even if it’s just to have a boyfriend.  As if it’s normal to marry young or it’s weird that I’m still single.

I’ve had the fairy tale misconception in my head since I was young that women are to marry prince charming, have babies, and stay home with those babies, while the strong successful husband provides for wife and said babies.

Of course, I desire that feeling of unconditional love someday. Knowing what it’s like to share my life with someone, faults and all.

BUT I also desire to love myself, become my own person; to have a chance to be independent and make something of myself.

I’ve learned that it’s okay for me to take my dear old time, I mean come on, I’m eighteen. I’ve learned that if I never get married or have kids, there’s a reason. I’ve learned I can be successful on my own, that I can take care of myself. I’ve learned that I don’t need a man to complete me.

Old, Broken, and Loved.

On Monday, a sign will be pounded into the grass of our small front yard declaring with obvious obnoxious print that it’s is indeed FOR SALE. And I don’t like it, not one bit.

I’ve moved once, at the age of four, from one small house in my quiet quaint town to another larger house in the same Midwest town. And frankly, at the age of four it doesn’t phase you much.

But now, now it’s a different story. I’ve resided in this 134 year old farm house, where my great Grandma once lived, for fourteen years. It has become a part of me. The creaky stairs, the worn hardwood floors, the chipped walls, the old fashioned glass door handles, the 1810 bolded black on the front of the house, the ancient drafty windows, the scurrying of mice in the walls.

No, it doesn’t sound ideal, but it has history.  The only house around with a dirt road to get to the main part of town. To just a house surrounded by other houses. To the same house, watching houses around it get work done while it stands strong not needing a face lift because each year adds character.

This home has provided me comfort for the times I need to be alone. It’s provided me warmth in the brutal Michigan winters and air in the blazing summers.

The memories created in this 5 bedroom, 3 baths, rickety home with my three older siblings and parents will never be lost or forgotten. As the house sells and we pack our copious belongings, the memories will be packed too.

I’ll be sad to say goodbye to this building I call home, but I wish that a lovely family finds it just as ruggedly beautiful as we do.