There’s no way to explain this ‘transition’ without first sorting out the word ‘compromise’ insofar as it
sleeps intermingles with the phrase ‘long term’. In this case: Marriage.
You marry a guy.
You get along.
You have a few kids.
They make you crazy but you’re proud of your spawn.
You promise these kids that you’ll pay for any institution of Higher Learning they can get accepted to as a way to motivate them to do well. They call your bluff and both get onto ivy league schools.
You spend late nights with your husband trying to figure a way through this stupid maneuver.
You rediscover the cocktail hour(s).
Somehow it ALL works out but the hairs on your heads start to turn gray. Neither one of you notice this because in each other’s minds your still 25. Then one of the kids comes for a visit and rifles through an old photo album and shows you people you have haven’t seen in a loooong time. My God, he has aged. Poor man.
You start to talk about what the future will bring- together. Alone at last.
You plan visits to big cities in far off places. He plans trips to rivers with trout and no cell service.
Hummmmmm… wait a minute… does the Ritz have a hotel out in the boondocks I’m not aware of? (And more importantly is spa service available? Because really, what’s a life well lived if the body hasn’t been sugar scrubbed by a swede named Stefon before you make your 8:30 reservations and land on 800 thread count sheets with a chocolate on your pillow?)
What am I hearing here?
You mean it’s NOT all about me? You have your own agenda and dreams and desires? Dear Lord, when did that happen?
Crap. I’m going to have to retool.
So you strike a ‘deal’, sitting back with this guy, the guy you’ve circumnavigated the bumps and bruises with: COMPROMISE.
And, until The Ritz opens a new hotel by the river, I’ll need my own suite.