Wherein I Betray the March of Herstory

My mother recently gave me a huge, heavy, ornately framed mirror that calls out to be hung on the wall above my bed. I’ve had it for a month. Now, I have been a single woman for eternity, and lived in rickety old houses for that long too, so I know how to hang things. I even  own a drill, with masonry bits and everything. I know about those special plastic anchors you have to buy to get a screw to stay in drywall. I have an allan wrench collection of such breadth that, were I to begin selling them on eBay, I could seriously undermine the entire economy of Sweden.

But I don’t want to hang that fucking mirror. And I don’t want to take my heavy air-conditioning unit out of the window and wrestle it into backroom storage by myself. I want someone with a penis and testicles to be here to do it.  When he’s done, I want him to come into the kitchen where (in this very detailed fantasy) I will be stirring something hearty and season-appropriate on the stove, probably something involving winter squash, and come up behind me and put his face to my neck and distract me.  I will playfully resist, but be turning down the burner at the same time. We will retire to my purple bedroom, where I have just installed newly laundered crisp white sheets, and “admire the newly hung mirror”. (I just invented that as a metaphor for sex; do you like it?)

Then, after a brief nap, we will adjourn to the couch to eat that wonderful butternut squash and sausage thing I made with some crusty bread I baked (that’s a euphemism I just invented for “bought at the farmers market”; do you like it?) and watch something PG-13 on HBO.  Perhaps he might kill a bug at some point during the evening, or strum a guitar…no, no, I’m getting carried away there. Even in my fantasies I know not to ask for too too much.

This may seem anachronistic, but hear me out: I think we, as a society, have taken the ideas of “fate” and “taking the time to find that special someone” too far. And by “too far” I mean “nearly to the end of my childbearing years”.  I am a nice person, and a good cook, and I am skilled at and enthusiastic about all the different forms of sexing. I have been told I’m funny, and I am very good at crosswords. I have a subscription to the New Yorker and great boobs. However, I just had to enlarge the font on my Kindle, and my boobs will not be great forever. Indeed, just between you and me, they are already not as great as they once were.  I also just realized, during a harsh moment involving some overhead lighting and me wearing my glasses,  that soon I will need to color my hair not just because it pleases me to pretend I was born a redhead but because it is slowly, slowly turning grey.

My point is this: I am ready for my friends and family to set up an arranged marriage* for me. I will appoint a panel of men and women who have known me for a minimum of five years to do the choosing. I am totally confident that the combined wisdom of these panelists can handily encompass my likes and dislikes, dealbreakers and must-haves, what I think I need (a free spirit!) and what I really need (someone very responsible), and my sexual  aversions and proclivities. (My mom will have to recuse herself from that portion of the proceedings.) I will happily accept a dowry, because I like money and gifts, but I will not offer one, because a) I once had a subscription to Ms. magazine, and b) I have no dowry to offer.

I have my flaws–numerous, abundant flaws–but I can keep them hidden or at least obscured behind a veil of sex, interesting pasta dishes, and witty repartee for at least a year, and even after that I promise to continue overcompensating for them. Being compulsively driven to please is one of the personality traits of adult children of alcoholics that make us excellent romantic partners!

In conclusion, I am sick unto death of both dating and being alone, so I think arranged marriage is the only logical solution. Also, the process will make excellent fodder for a wry, honest, poignant-yet-tough memoir that I’d like to write someday–one with a happy ending, thank you very much.

I’d like to have this resolved within the next 18 months, so friends and family members–you know who you are–please volunteer for this assignment before I have to strong-arm you into it. Thank you.

*And by “marriage”, I mean “long-term monogamous committed relationship involving cohabitation”. See, I’m modern!