When’s it your turn?

My baby brother got married on the weekend.  He has been with his girlfriend for over ten years.  They were high school sweethearts.  They bought a house and a dog and then ten years later decided to get married.  While that is a fairly regular story in our family, it’s not my story.  Out of the 6 cousins that I have that are particularly close, I am the only one who hasn’t kept a boyfriend from my teens for an eternity.  Apart from the fact that I never had a boyfriend in my teens, life just hasn’t worked out that way.  I did get one or two in my twenties and since then I seem to have acquired a number of boys that are friends that work very well at scaring off any other potential man that I may want to look at sideways, but, apart from that – my love life or lack of, has remained largely that, mine.

Over the years they’ve asked.  They’ve asked who he was, where he was and why haven’t they met him.  The boys have pondered if it’s actually a she, the occasional remark that I am too fussy and that there can’t be that much wrong with me, but mostly they leave me alone.  My cousins’ wives have become my cousins and my my brother’s new wife, my sister.  My aunties and uncles however, just the ones I don’t see often, have a very different idea about my love life.  

The wedding was great.   All of the people I love in one room, dancing, drinking, pretty dresses and frivolity and when the frivolity starts so do the questions.  The sometimes present aunties and uncles, with a few wines under their belts, ask the question -“And when’s it your turn, young lady?”  “Got anyone hidden away there we should no about?”  “How old are you now dear?”  and my favourite one, “Do you think you’ll ever get married?”

While my answers began with sly smiles and off the cuff remarks that allowed me to change the subject very quickly, persistent questioning led my final response to “I’m never getting fucking married!”  and with a turn of my heel, my large fishbowl wine glass tucked under my arm and a swoosh of purple lace from my bridesmaid dress, I was gone.   Over to my parents table to retell the horror of my conversations and inappropriate questioning.  My mum laughed, my dad raised an eyebrow and my Aunty asked if I told them about Jorge that lives in my garage.  No sympathy from any of them at all.  My only ally, my parents very good friends and parent to one of the afore mentioned males in my life who scares off potential mates, responded with “Oh well, do they know that you are leaving the country soon?”  I smiled, said no and refrained myself from storming back to the offending relatives and wanting to fill them in on the rest of my successful life.  I took another swig from the dwindling scotch in a wine glass, and took a moment to reflect on the fact that I have a career, own a house, have travelled across half the globe, volunteer my time, have successful relationships with a number of people when my mum chimes in with “Well, it doesn’t matter, sweetheart.  You might find one in America?”

I turned from my parents and the rest of my loving family and went back to the dance floor.  I danced by myself, I refilled my own glass and I only had to go home when my mum said it was time because the car was leaving.  I don’t have to answer to anyone.  I can come and go as I please and the only person who has the right to tell me what to do is the only one who has ever been able to.  My mum. Being single isn’t a disease.  You can’t catch it and it’s not something that I can change by making a purchase at Kmart.  I don’t know if I want to get married.  I don’t know if I will ever ‘find’ someone.  But it’s ok if I don’t.  Because I have learnt to fill my own wine glass.