In recent years, much has been made in the media of studies purporting to show that marriage is on the decline: the average age at which we get married is older than ever (24 for women! 27 for men!), and depending on one’s tax bracket, some of us might never get married at all. Based on my own astute, though admittedly unscientific observations, however, it still seems to be the case that in most circles, regardless of one’s cultural background or socioeconomic status, getting married is pretty much a given, eventually, for those who are able. But as has been demonstrated by various romantic comedies starring Katherine Heigl—or the current girl-next-door starlet of your choice, early adulthood and marriage don’t necessarily go hand-in-hand these days. My single girlfriends and I have examined the whys of this issue ad nauseum, and the one idea that always soothes our world-weary spirits is that those early marriage types are too eager to cast off their high expectations, whereas we have refused to settle. I admit that I’ve wavered over the years, and wondered whether my self-appointment as a romantic stalwart is a virtue, or a stubborn rejection of reality.
As a college freshman, I joined a mammoth club of Christian youth, seeking kids who shared my views on drug-free partying and the banalities of the Greek system. My commitment to this club lasted all of one scholastic year, but I was an enthusiastic participant for the whole nine months, attending every meeting, prayer party (yes, prayer party), and retreat. The Winter retreat was the second of three that the club sponsored that year, and it was held at the local Holiday Inn, a few miles from campus. On the first night of the retreat, the club’s male staff headed up a Q&A in one of the hotel’s conference rooms with us girls, so we could ask all of those PG-13 questions that had been burning a hole in our brains.
As I sat cross-legged on the drab industrial-carpeted floor of the conference room, I thought of all the kind but bland young men I’d met the past semester, my brethren in the club. They were the kind of boys that every mother hopes will be her daughter’s first crush, but somehow I couldn’t picture a life with any of them fifteen years down the road. I posed the following question to the club’s senior advisor, a tiny father of seven who wore his pants approximately three sizes too large: “When do you know whether you’re settling, or just being reasonable?” A chorus of “ahs” reverberated off the beige-curtained walls.
The tiny prolific father nodded sagely, and said something to the effect of, “Nobody is perfect” and “You’ll know when you know,” before moving on to the next girl. Surprisingly, his advice has not proved particularly useful in the ensuing years.
I decided that when I met a man who would encourage me to cry on his shoulder over my parents’ divorce and the death of my father, I would know he was The One. Man enough to lean on, tender enough to care. I went out with a guy once who asked me about my parents, and I told him that my father had passed away when I was nine. I waited for the usual empathetically furrowed brow and compassionate murmur. Instead, he said, “Oh, that’s cool. Did you handle it pretty well? I feel like most people handle death pretty well.” I think he was stoned, which probably should’ve tipped me off that he wasn’t One-material.
A few years ago, I read an article in a woman’s magazine by a writer who encouraged her readers to forget about waiting for Mr. Right and to embrace Mr. Good Enough. She apparently agreed with the Tiny Father that, as a result of original sin, waiting for The One was a waste of time. Find someone who is just okay, the writer urged, and you’ll be glad you did! Ridiculous!, I thought. Or was it? After all, her philosophy wasn’t so different in application from arranged marriage, and I’d heard of successful arranged marriages (although friends from cultures where arranged marriage is practiced have pointed out that successful matches are often the exception to the rule, and when they’re bad, they are very bad). I think I allowed myself to be ruled by this philosophy for a few years, focusing on men whose marriageability was indicated not so much by their dazzling personalities or uproarious senses of humor as by their FEP (future earning potential) and perceived readiness to settle down. When this method produced disastrous results, I put the whole institution and my doubts and questions about it on my mental back burner.
One of my girlfriends recently became engaged to Mr. Good Enough. I want to be happy for her—and I would be, if only I was sure that she was happy for herself. She’s wanted to be married for years, and I’m sure she thought she would throw herself into wedding planning and other premarriage preparations. Instead, she seems a bit bored by it all. The woman’s magazine writer failed to consider the effect of her practical, if unromantic, marriage philosophy on Mr. Good Enough, who can’t take any pride in his title. If I still harbored any doubts about the wisdom of choosing a partner based on a misplaced desire for security or my fears about my perceived future, I don’t anymore. I still don’t know the difference between settling and being reasonable, but I guess the advice of the Tiny Father is as good as any: nobody’s perfect, and I’ll know when I know.
