The Marrying Kind

“You're not the marrying kind"

He said it surely, confidently, as factual as death tolls, equally devastating dreams every girl has dwelled on since plastic high heels clanking on linoleum floors. Practicing curtsies and ‘I do’s’ and ‘I love you’s’, planning dinners and cuddles and how to act surprised when he asks those four words that have kept you up dreaming at night from training wheels, to training bras, to job training.

A sure part of my soul created in the womb with sugar and spice and glitter tiaras and daisies with a string tightly wrapped as to not come undone when thrown in the air, as her dreams and heart come unwraveled with she hears:

“You’re not the marrying kind”

What kind is for marriage?
Those worthy of love. The love in movies, takes place singing outside windows throwing rocks, throwing pillows, throwing pennies into fountains, making wishes on candles and eyelashes and stars shooting across watched skies, waiting for a sign, to be knocked out of dangers way by Prince Charming riding up in an old mustang, being everything you wanted and nothing you expected and oh so much more that butterflies and starry eyes and kisses.

And those who are not?
Evil stepsisters and pre-Madonna’s wanting nothing more than suffering for the underserving. And I’ve never seen myself as ugly or nemesis’ and love is my motto, not suffering, so how can it be...

I’m not the marrying kind?

And with these dreams at the soul of my being, how could I not search for my desires in love and life and I look around and everyone has found it in pressed suits and speed dates and diamond rings – subjecting communities to public “I love you’s” and life breathed fairytales. Making my dreams realities, and then shutting the glass door, locking me in the rain as I watch my impersonated dreams without touching the magic, because:

I’m not the marrying kind.

But I am the dreaming kind. Hoping still one day for childhood dreams come realities in a man who loves me second, and loves me well. And the high heels don’t matter, nor the cuddles or curtsies but the starry eyed butterflies do. For my soul was surely created from the womb of my being for maybe more than glitter tiaras and unraveling string. Penny fountain wishes and daydreams.

For I have dreams in this heart of mine.
That he’s wrong.

I am the marrying kind.