I should be celebrating. I have been, inasmuch as you can celebrate at home when you’re doped up on pain meds that work but in a less-than-fun way. I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t feel ready to head out of the house and show off my new face, which is a work in progress and will be for a while. And I’m honest-to-god not fishing for compliments when I say this, but it’s odd to be excited by the increased number of possibilities the future holds when I’m simultaneously wondering if this dumb accident has changed how appealing I might be to marry.
That sounds like wallowing, I know, but it’s actually only a small part of what I’m feeling. I’m just wondering if anyone else out there is feeling both “I can get married!” and “Can I get married?” right now.
If you had a time machine and went back and told eighteen-year-old me that on June 26, 2015, I’d be given the go-ahead to get married — truly, officially married, in a way that the entire nation recognizes — I’d be surprised. I would probably tell you that fifteen years seems like a long time to wait but I’d be celebrating when that day finally comes. I’m celebrating in the way that I can right now. And I’m happy that some future version of me won’t grow up having to wait.