My friends who are ten years older than me have parents the same age as me. They are pretty much shocked, but that's just about the way my life is. My friends my age have parents way younger than mine. Otherwise, because they are not the firstborn, the contrast is not that bad.
It seems as though that over here, the fact that my mother got married at 28 and my father, at 34, makes it a late marriage.
I've never really thought that way. I mean, even though most of my gurlfriends are ready to get engaged pretty damn soon, all with wedding plans, and even though most people and younger girls I know have all factored in marriages and kids as part of the gameplan of life as though it is a Will Come just like death, I have never really thought that way.
Maybe except be a bloody skeptic.
I still think I'm young. Quite young, no matter how they nag at me.
I still want The Man, not just any man who can provide for me and who is interested in me. The latter is a dime a dozen, and I'm sorry to say that all I really need is someone who resonates with me and is that perfect fit, somehow.
It takes a lot to engage me or to sustain my interest, somehow. I get turned off easily, it's awful. It's worse how I'm hardly impressed, I reckon I was pretty much made a hard nut to crack.
So to tell me to get married by 28 is quite scary to me.
I mean, it's all a big question mark. Of course, by then, I'd hope to have achieved the sustainable aims of love, career and a certain equilibrium in my life.
I always and still think my parents didn't marry late, even though their era would label it so. Even mine does.
Being in love with a man much older has taught me that . . I should be bloody glad that he is 'old' and yet somehow available for the picking. Because no matter what offers I get, I don't touch owned property. I like older men. Not *that* much older, not old enough to father me (at a socially-acceptable age) but older. Wiser, stabler, madder, and more experienced.
So another man I know is seventeen years older. It's fine by me. He's a good guy, a good friend. Even if he's on the market again.
Too late, too old, too strange that he's on the market? I doubt that. I wonder why society has some sort of unjustified paranoia towards a thirty-something year-old man who is single. Or has been single for some time until you.
It's just as strange as how, over the years, people always are unable to believe that I'm single. It's fine by me, it's great by me, because I get to dictate my own time. I need that freedom to breathe.
I'm bloody scared of being caged up, all that I conjure up in my mind are excuses to leave.
So strangely-single and strangely-single happen to meet. Great, isn't it. Maybe it's meant to be. Random factors that really aren't so random operate all the time.
In mysterious ways. And the Universe always conspires.
This expiry date based on ages is strange.
Even though many girls I know keep nagging at me, the tautology chewing off my neurons, I know what I have, and I know what I don't have.
I find it more important to learn to be complete as a person, before another completes you on an entirely transcendentally-different level altogether.
Attracting older men is something of a pattern I see, and don't entirely mind. I like Wine Men who blossom with age. They have character, body and aroma.
So if not-so-random random factors dictate that I get hitched this year or next year to The Man then so be it, as long as it all remains rationally-stable enough. If at 30, so be it.
I don't crave or envisage a fairy tale, all I want and will have is A Mad Life, because Happy The Mad.
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