There’s a wedding gown in the corner of the room and it’s mocking me. There’s also a pool table flooded with remnants of, well, just about anything, that’s got me feeling like I’m Alice falling down the rabbit hole every time it catches my eye. I get up to put some dirty dishes in the sink, and he lays in his bed without even acknowledging the shift in weight on the mattress. He’s got “the man cold”, and judging from the site of this place, I’m prone to think his entire life has been one long “man cold”. For a moment I wonder if I could make this one of my little sacrifices to maintain a relationship. I think about saying something about the hair on his bathroom floor or the piles of dishes in the kitchen that make him look like a hoarder, but I stop myself. He’s not well and I’m not here to criticize; I’m here to help him feel better. Well, it feels more like I’m trying to make myself feel better now. That wedding dress in the corner screams at me to answer the question though. Is this sacrifice-able? I’m cringing now. That dumb dress… I never even imagined I’d touch one. Maybe it was a curse. I tried it on. He saw me in it. Now everything will challenge me, trying to jinx any future marriage I may be granted. I start organizing the garbage. Then I tackle the pile of dishes.
Is that mold?! How old is that cheese?!
I think I’ll be sick, but I force myself through. I’m now three plates in. I’m working on a spoon when he appears in the kitchenette. “You don’t have to do that.”
Yes I do! I certainly do! This is breeding bacteria! It’s a sore sight!
“Yes I do.” I shouldn’t have said it, but it’s too late now. I’ll clean it all and yes-sir-rie! That’s mold! And I’ll clean it! I have to find him to tell him I need permission to clean this with something stronger than “apple blossom”. He says to do what I think is best. A-bombing the apartment and starting from scratch isn’t an option though, so I finish the bowl and I’m proud of the way it came out. I’m smiling because I know any man would be lucky to have such a “domesticated girl”, but as I reenter the room, that pool table and that gown, they’re still mocking me and still begging me to answer the question, like I’m their key witness for the prosecution…
“Are you able to settle and sacrifice to build the life you’ve only ever dreamed possible?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please, answer the question.”
“I said I don’t know, your Honor.”
“I’ll rephrase it. Can you give up happiness to get what you want?”
“If I get what I want, won’t I be happy?”
“I ask the questions here!”
I’m going to land myself in the hole; right next to Alice.
I have seemed to overlook the 5 bags of “garbage” that have been saved for “our place”. I have overlooked the 3 water bottles on the nightstand at all times. I have overlooked the piles of clothes that never find their home. I have overlooked hairs I must clean out of the sink twice a week.
“The only important question is, ‘Will you marry me?’”
The question of, “Are you able to settle and sacrifice to build the life you’ve only ever dreamed possible?” didn't count as "important" anymore.
I said, “yes” when he asked, probably looking like the Cheshire cat.
I either subconsciously knew I would be happy with the mess among the else-wise perfect man, or I’m more Mad Hatter than Alice... I choose to trust my White Rabbit instincts are guiding me well. And I trust that the me that wrote the above (about 5 months into our relationship) would be proud of me for sticking it out. I can find happiness in the chaos. There doesn't have to be any sabotage.
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