It wasn’t till earlier this year that I decided I’d really like to have a boyfriend. I had spent the last decade single, out of choice, a result of a few disappointing relationships, and wanting to spend my 20s growing into my own identity. But it was not like I could go shopping for one, showing up at a specialty-store, or having a credit card ready to swipe my purchase.
Trust me, the irony of me wanting to have a boyfriend isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent the last few years writing articles encouraging, no wait, exhorting singles to cherish their single-status, reminding them that their worth is from God, not an arm candy. I also remember telling readers if it was God’s will for me to remain single, then so be it! How smug and self-assured I was!
Alas, I’ve to eat my words. Time’s flown by, and I woke up one day realizing that I don’t want to end up as the crazy cat lady when I hit 50 (which makes no sense, I don’t even like cats). Other factors had played a part too (in case you thought it was just a fleeting fancy), like attending my best friend’s wedding (how happy the couple looked) and many other weddings after. Each has left me thinking about my own future wedding; the venue, the guests, the dress (it’s embarrassing because I’ve never considered myself a girly girl). But more importantly, it’s the desire to share in all sorts of adventures (or misadventures) with a lifelong companion, knowing there’s someone I can fall back on (again, I’m embarrassed by how cliched this sounds).
So, a sense of longing has settled in my heart, the yearning for a boyfriend, who would then be my husband to fill this void. I’ve caught myself believing the lie, if I’ve a boyfriend (turn husband), then life would be perfect.