Let’s face it, Superman’s not the only guy who’s afraid of being pinned to the matrimonial mat. In fact, I’d bet most women have, at one time or another, toyed with the idea of performing genetic tests on their boyfriends to see if they lack the Commitment Chromosome. The trouble is, talking about marriage only seems to make matters worse. So, rather than having rational conversations about the future, couples can find themselves locked in protracted wedlock wars, in which threats, tears and ultimatums are used by both sides to get their way.
Here’s a perfect case in point. My boyfriend and I have been dating each other for almost three years now. Andy (not his real name) tells me he’s never been happier. I tell Andy he’s the man of my dreams. We’re the personification of every goopy, soft-focus Hallmark card until I mention the dreaded M word.
With that, Andy’s face pales. Beads of Nixonian sweat break out on his upper lip, and a slight tic takes hold in the skin beneath his left eye. Suddenly, benign words like “boutonniere” and “function hall” have the power to bring Andy to his knees but not, unfortunately, in the proposal position. Instead, he stammers something about not being “ready” and races from me, as a doomed man flees his executioner. What’s going on here? Beats me. I blame all those MGM musicals I watched as a kid. They made love look so simple: boy meets girl, boy gets girl, boy buys girl a “rock” the size of New Jersey. To me, marriage is the natural next step in a solid, mutually satisfying relationship. To Andy, it’s the Terror of Terrors; the black hole of baby puke, mortgages and station wagons; the ball and chain from Ward Cleaver Hell.
As a result, we have the “So just when will you be ready?” fight on a quarterly basis. Afterward, I console myself by mainlining chocolate products, playing Patsy Cline records and commiserating with my unmarried friends, who are having the same arguments with their men. “So it’s not that I’m a controlling shrew or have too much cellulite?” I sniffle. “Heck, no,” they assure me. “It’s a ‘boy thing.’ They’re allergic to marriage.”
According to a private research study (mine), the average man rarely shares his beloved’s eagerness to enter an “altared” state. The evidence is everywhere. Pick up any “women’s” magazine and you’ll find at least one article on “How to Get Your Man to Stop Hyperventilating When You Mention Marriage.” Flip on Phil or Oprah, and you’ll hear women moaning that men are incapable of committing themselves to anything except football and power tools. Check out the self-help section of your local bookstore and you’ll see row upon row of titles ranging from “Getting the Love You Want” to “Love Is Never Enough.”
Despite feminism and the supposed equal rights between the sexes, we women still find ourselves in the prehistoric position of waiting for our men to do the proposing. Forget how assertive we are at the office; when it comes to getting engaged most of us curl up into the mental equivalent of the fetal position. “Me, propose to him? Isn’t that illegal? Besides, who’d buy the ring?” And, really, can I find the vocabulary to do it and still keep my dignity?
Sometimes I wonder why I bother worrying about all this. Andy and I get along so effortlessly when I don’t bring up the topic of marriage. Surely, with wonderful friends and a demanding career, I don’t need a husband to be happy. What’s more, applying the “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” theory to our relationship, we’re doing just fine, as is. Staying single also allows me to enjoy the benefits of court-ship, while sparing myself the indignities of the stinky socks and unwashed dishes which threaten to overrun Andy’s apartment.
Yet, in my heart of hearts, I still want to marry the big lug. Why? Because my life wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without Andy in it. Because I think it’s important to commit myself to something higher than my own self-centered needs. Because there’s something very moving to me about standing before my relatives and friends and pledging to share a common home, history and family with the man I love. Because at the end of my life, I want to have something more meaningful to look back on than dinners in trendy restaurants and power calls from car phones.
This month Andy and I will celebrate our third anniversary, which means we’ll probably be having one of “those” talks again. But I’m not worried. Over the years I’ve found ways to cope with my anxiousness and Andy’s anxiety about marriage. How? I tell my mother to stop with the novenas, already. I shamelessly tackle other single women when bridal bouquets are tossed. And I try not to throttle people (invariably named Cyndi or Kimberly) when they giggle and tell me that their boyfriends proposed on their first dates.
Actually, Andy’s reticence toward marriage has taught me a couple of valuable lessons. I’ve learned that marriage isn’t something you do to get out of the house or to make your parents happy. And, contrary to what movies and romance novels would have us believe, marriage isn’t about fleets of bridesmaids or rental tuxes or bands playing “We’ve Only Just Begun.” It’s about forming a true partnership and loving each other enough to realize that the only right time to marry is when it’s right for both people - as long as one of those people doesn’t take 50 years to make up his mind!
