If you knew you’d meet the love of your life in a year, how different would that year be?
I feel like I’ve done a pretty good job of living my life without waiting for someone to live it with me. I backpacked solo through Europe after my college graduation because I couldn’t convince anyone to go with me. A break-up spurred my move to France. I bought a one-way ticket to Australia, a one-way ticket to Southeast Asia simply because they were places I wanted to go and experiences I wanted to have. Along the way, I played the dating-while-traveling game; however, my first priority was always myself (not the secret for any sort of long-term relationship, I can assure you).
But now I’m living in New York City: the world’s apparent epicenter of single girls, dating horror stories and sex and the city. Social calendars are packed with drinks dates, blind dates, online dates, bad dates. While it is surely one of the most fun places in the world to be single–think Fashion Week, the hottest clubs, enough SoHo eye candy to make your head swim–there’s also a not-so-subtle pressure to couple up. This becomes evident every time you end up as the third, fifth, thirteenth wheel at a party or whenever you realize the only value you’re bringing to these situations are your “single people stories.” And then there’s the competition: New York City is home to real-life, impossibly gorgeous models, ballet dancers, media superstars. It’s more than a little intimidating, especially as you try to transition a wardrobe and beauty routine that was built for Southeast Asia backpacker beaches.
So even though I happily navigated the globe without a co-pilot and even managed to put together my Ikea furniture by myself, part of my fixed life envy includes someone, other than my BFF, to share in the city dream of brunches and speakeasies and quiet nights with Thai take-out. Pressure is starting to mount, in the form of holiday engagement Facebook posts, wedding invitations in the mail, adorable babies taking over my Instagram feed. And sometimes, all that travel doesn’t exactly lend itself to becoming a prime dating candidate: it’s true that I often feel like my whole past screams “independent woman.” When it comes to settling down, how needy does one need to be?
I’ve started to realize that I’m getting a bit too anxious about the whole thing: let’s be real, the cute guy on the subway is probably not my future husband and if there aren’t sparks on the first date, they’re probably not coming. So I was (slightly) reassured to read this post by Joanna Goddard–one of my current lifestyle blogging crushes and a major inspiration on how to blog, write, love, live–that basically says it’s pointless to worry about meeting your soulmate.
Mostly, though, I was struck by the question: If you knew you’d meet the love of your life in a year, how different would that year be? If I knew that a year from now, the man of my dreams would breeze casually into my life: how would I feel about these hours wasted on anxiety and loneliness? Would I be disappointed that I didn’t spend more time speaking Spanish, whipping up pad Thai, working on my unassisted headstand? To that extent, would I pack up my bags and head off to backpack South America or do a working holiday in New Zealand or yoga training in India? Those are still things I really, really want to do: what guarantee do I have that I’ll find someone who shares those dreams?
Whenever I get a little too down in the dumps about the whole thing, I also remember that this is my life, that these choices are mine. One of my favorite lines of the Holstee Manifesto: looking for the love of your life? Stop: they will be waiting for you when you start doing the things you love.
To that effect: I’ll be spending the next 12 months doing yoga, volunteering, going to modern art museums, getting out of the city, reading and drinking lattes in sunny cafes…and maybe, just maybe, someone will be waiting.
