Only the lonely ...
Last night I cried over killing a roach.
Not because I felt bad about killing it, but because I don't have a husband.
See, my sister has decided to start blogging. Apparently all her friends are doing it, and also it's football season. She doesn't like football, but her husband does, and she needs something to do while he watches games. Because, she blogs, "sitting on the couch with [her husband] is one of [her] very favorite things." That totally made me go "aw," because that's one of the three things I think about when I think about why I want a husband. Watching TV together, curled up on the couch. Driving together on long trips is the second.
And the third is someone to kill bugs for me.
So I'd read her blog earlier in the day and commented to that effect -- that I wanted a husband to sit on the couch with and drive down the road with and kill bugs for me.
Then I got home last night. I was washing my hands in the bathroom and went to dry them, and there was a HUGE roach sitting right on top of the towel, staring at me. Like it wasn't even scared of me or anything.
I hate roaches so much. I've had my fair share of odd bug problems in this apartment. There was the Biblical plague of flies in my bathroom, and the millipedes that were pilgramaging across my carpet to die beside my baseboards. And the occasional enormous spider. But I haven't seen a roach in the three years that I've lived here, so I was still counting myself lucky.
On top of my general loathing of them, its location was especially problematic. I didn't want to smush it on my hand towels. But I was deathly afraid it would fly at me when I tried to knock it off. It did, and it was traumatic, and it made a big mess of a smush when I finally got it.
And when it was done, I was all shaky and all I could think about was how unfair it was that I didn't have a husband to kill it for me. And how for all I knew, I might never get married, and so was condemned to a life of killing roaches for myself and how I honestly didn't think I could go through that again. And then I broke down and cried. Messily, and while I was trying to finish peeling the apples for the Apple Charlotte. It was a bad time and bad timing.
And then I went to the party, and we watched Julie and Julia, and if you have seen it, you know that the idea of how great supportive husbands can be is practically one of its themes. So I'm still feeling a little sorry for myself.
I could tell myself to count my blessings, but that's actually part of the problem. My life is basically perfect, except for the lack of a man. I have a great job. I love my family. I have good friends. And I can afford all the books I can fit into my house and then some. I feel so lucky that it makes me uneasy. Like maybe it's God's way of making up for the fact that he knows I'm never going to fall in love, get married and have babies. I don't *really* think that's how God works. But I can't really let go of the idea, either.
There are lots of things I like about being single. I like that I never have to clean up behind anyone or consider what someone else wants to watch on TV. I like that I can keep my out-of-control fanfic habit and other obsessive behavior completely to myself. I love that when I go shopping with my friends and they're trying to think of ways to justify their spending to their husband, I can just shrug and ring up another pair of jeans.
But aside from the fact that I want a husband just for the having a husband part of it, all my friends are married. And my sister is married. That means they all have built in best friends. Someone that they're going to call first with exciting news or plan vacations with. So not only does not having a husband mean I don't have a husband, it also means I don't have any best friends anymore. Not really.
A friend once asked me what, completely setting aside looks, I looked for in a guy. And the only real answer I could come up with is someone who really actually liked me. That's what I want. Someone who will call me first with exciting news and someone who I can call first without feeling lame. Someone who thinks the idea of spending seven hours in the car with me sounds like a vacation. Someone to just have around and be comfortable with. And someone who will kindly allow me to freak out and flee the room while they take care of the roach.
For now, though, I need to go wash ever thing in my bathroom that the roach might have possibly come into contact with.