Today is our seven-year anniversary. And originally I was going to make you nauseous by once again swooning about my perfect guy and how we are disgustingly romantic together, and sometimes plain disgusting. Last night I licked his elbow, and that is no euphimism.
Instead I thought I’d amuse everyone with a quick rant.
Last Saturday we went out in pursuit of a fancy dinner. We tried a new Indian restaurant in Cologne. It was nice – not as good as our go-to place, but that’s still not bad. We stuffed ourselves with a four-course meal complete with vanilla icecream and mango sauce. And then, because I love sharing our boring everyday adventures, I posted this picture to FB:
“Celebrating seven years of disgusting romance with Indian food. And while we were staring into each other’s eyes, the Duck stole our dessert. ^^ “
Not too creative, nothing exotic. You all know the Duck, right?
Then the annoying comments started pouring in.
“Has he finally proposed to you?”
“I bet you were testing wedding venues.”
” When are you getting married?”
I told them to stop asking, to no avail.
To make things clear, I followed up with this:
“For the records: For f***’s sake, stop asking us whether we have “finally made it official”. First, it’s none of your business. Second, don’t you think we’d let you know? And third, we have had seven great years. We plan on having at least seventy more. And we really don’t have to get married in order to love and cherish each other. Should we ever decide to tie the knot, we’ll tell you when (and if) we think you have to know. Just back off and smell the flowers and stuff.”
To which a friend said, “You sound as if they really struck a nerve.”
I was tempted to strangle her on the spot. But they did, kind of.
Because, honestly, the whole their-nose-deeply-buried-in-my-business attitude offends me.
I am not secretly pining for him to “ask the question” and to finally get married (because, after all, women get married, the same way that furniture gets bought).
I have not chosen a white dress or spent sleepless nights planning floral arrangements.
There are no baby clothes hidden in the back of our wardrobe, “just in case”.
To me – and this is important, I am not judging anyone else’s decision – marriage is mostly an organizational issue. I know some women are different. Some of my best friends have had amazing weddings, which they spent months planning and preparing, and glowed as if it really was the best day of their lives (so far – it is supposed to be even better after that, right?).
I have seen others move in together or marry in a hurry, only to have devastating fights and break-ups not even a year later.
But I don’t see myself worrying about dresses or shoes or cake – okay, maybe cake – or spending days handpainting invites and nametags. Should we get married (not saying we will, we could spent the next seventy years in unmatrimonial bliss!), there will be cake. And probably real food as well. And of course we will tell the world immediately – as if I could ever keep a proper secret! But it simply is not our focus, and I don’t see how our ringfingers or reproductive organs are anyone else’s business.
For seven years I have been swooning (and at times complaining) about Richard. Many of you have been there with me, probably gagging at all the sticky candy love. For four and a half years I have been cooking most of his meals without ever being tempted to poison him. We have shared everyday life, from sore feet to hangovers to shitty days at the office to terrible moods, including shouting and tears. And we still don’t want to kill each other. When he is home in the evening, instead of getting shit done we spend time together on the sofa cuddling – every single night. (At this rate I’ll never finish the next novel. )
What will change if we get married? First there are the tax breaks. And I’ll get to pull the plug if he ends up in hospital as a human vegetable.
Yes, I am that romantic.
What is my stance on all those nosy, hopefully wellmeaning people? Quite simple: No, they don’t get to interfere with our personal decisions. They don’t get to imply that we are getting too old to marry, or have kids. (We haven’t even decided whether we want any.) We still have tons of stuff to do – see the world, take the pictures, write the stories. Getting married and changing diapers has not even made it to my top ten to-do list for the next years. Doodling dirty jokes, on the other hand… So, there’s plenty of stuff they can ask about if they want to know more about our lives.
“Where are you travelling next?”
“Has he bought a new camera?”
“How long do I have to wait for the next short story?”
“Are you really into dirty doodles?”
“What about your plan to make the ultimate orange and cream cheese cakepops?”
I will gladly share the answers to these and many more questions with everyone (somewhere sunny; we’re still negotiating; almost done; maybe; I’ll share the recipe if I ever make it back to the kitchen).
(Now they have to come up with their own questions, bummer.)
But if people continue to pester us about our personal stuff, I’ll retaliate by asking wildly inappropriate questions about their own personal lives:
“Have you pooped today?”
“I bet you haven’t slept with your girlfriend in ages.”
“Does your husband like your new wrinkles?”
And if they even think about touching my belly – I am fat, not pregnant – I may try to break their favorite finger.