I like to listen to a podcast called “Dear Sugar”. Hosted by Cheryl Strayed (author of Wild and Tiny Beautiful Things) and Steve Almond, the podcast is an audio advice column, with the kind of candid, insightful and raw advice your grandmother never gave you. The latest episode of this podcast focuses on the most common issue that they hear about — people (and by people, I mean women) being anxious about whether “the one” is out there, or if they should settle.
I am exactly the sort of neurotic person who would be anxious about this kind of thing, so I am thankful that I am not single, and am therefore unable to have this angst. Apparently, as women move into their 30’s, there begins a genuine scarcity of available men (a by-product of the shorter lifespan of men as opposed to women). I slid in right under the wire, having met my husband when I was 29.
I am completely happy with the rock upon which I have built my home, but the path to get here wasn’t easy. Between my first heartbreak at the age of sixteen, and my final relationship with my husband, are strewn more men than I care to count. I have, on occasion, futilely wished that I had the fairytale romance of good books and bad movies, where my first love was my last love, where I was spared all of the in-between heartache.
It was a Bollywood movie that gave me fresh perspective on this. I love a good Bollywood mega-romance, no matter how melodramatic. It occurred to me that the part I love best is when the couple meets — the slow spooling of their burgeoning romance. And it occurred to me that the flip side of those heartbreaks is that I got to fall in love. Over and over again, till I sucked dry the marrow of romance. Over and over again, so that I no longer long for that new-born romance now, and can take comfort in the glow of a steady love. What luck!