Everybody else has already posted their Valentiney musings (or gushings) already–’cause it was already Valentine’s Day, probably. Don’t worry. I didn’t forget. I just wanted to post about it today instead. Let’s not mess with the blog-schedule, you know?
The other week I was shopping with my mom–mostly for a sweater or wrap or something to go with the dress I bought for last weekend. (I ended up not wearing that particular dress, but I did wear the sweater. Oddly enough.) In the car on the way home, Mom asked me something like, “So . . . how are you feeling about being married, almost a year on?” This could be a weird question in the sense that obviously I’ve been in contact with my parents throughout this year and it’s not like I never talk about my marriage. But I think she was just acknowledging that, for someone who had never been married until age 39 1/2, good or bad, marriage was going to be an adjustment. I guess she was wondering how I felt I was adjusting.
“Well,” I said, “I love it. But you’re right–it’s so different from the lifestyle I’ve ever had up to this point, that sometimes I think, ‘This isn’t my life. How did was this accomplished? Who’s life did I just hijack?'” Besides my Paul’s, obviously.
Then I said, “I think the most different thing is that I feel really content.”
Then I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever truly been content before.”
“You seem content,” my mom said. “You definitely seem less frantic than you used to.”
So here’s the deal. I don’t think any person can fully fulfill any other person. But evidently there’s a lot to be said for coming to the end of a search. I regret, now, how much time I wasted waiting for the next thing, and sometimes the fact that I’ve actually settled down still strikes me as not my life, but being content and at rest with a good man whom I love and who loves me back? Well, I’m glad that somehow, I finally got there. Thanks, God. Love you, my Paul.