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CONFESSIONS
OF A BRAVE BRIDE
Being A Newlywed Sucks!
By Daisy O.

Ok. I’ve decided to be brave. I’ve decided to go all out and say it – the unmentionable, ungrateful, unpalatable truth. As I take a deep breath and prepare myself to become the Most Contemptuous Female in the World, I comfort myself with the unbridled conviction that as soon as the words are out I will hear a proverbial chorus of agreement from my blissfully wedded readers. All right, girls, here it goes.

Being a Newlywed sucks! Getting married to The Most Wonderful Man in the World is really hard. Finding the love of your life can feel like the end of your life. And, finally, why didn’t anyone ever tell me this?

My ears are perked. Do I hear the solicitous mumble of consenting noises?

You see, about a year ago, I had the most beautiful wedding and I married the most beautiful man and we moved away to live in the most beautiful house. But a week later I was a mess. I was also standing in one, literally. My new home, that venerated habitation of supposed conjugal bliss, the one I had so carefully put together in an eclectic blend of Polynesian design and French Provincial comfort, was strewn with underwear, used towels, dirty glasses, dog pee and a scattering of size 10 shoes.

To my surprise, I found that every time I picked something up, a new offending clutter would appear around the corner. I felt like I was following a trail of breadcrumbs left by my gorgeous husband, like a pigeon frantically pecking away to obliterate his traces. But I wasn’t hungry. And I was leaving my own trail…of tears.

I missed my mother. I missed my friends. I missed my job. I missed sleeping in my own bed and eating scrambled eggs every night in front of the TV. I missed flirting with strangers and going to happy hours and taking trips with my best friend. I even missed being lonely.

It was tough. I felt so ashamed of my feelings. And worse, I started to have these daydreams in which my incredibly sweet husband was getting stabbed while sticking up for some poor abused girl (because that’s just something he would do), or better yet, falling to his death in a doomed skydive excursion (after I begged him not to do it)! These fantasies became so elaborate that I was often left a blubbering, tearful maniac by my own horrific imaginings.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love my husband desperately, that I didn’t appreciate the kind and generous man that he was. I was just a modern woman having left the perfectly well-defined and accepted life of a “single” woman. I was dealing with the idea of what my husband and I thought our marriage should be – that is, me working quietly from home, minding the fort, and him being the big shot provider. (Yes absurd clichés still live rampant in many strong independent women.) I was confused. I thought I should be ecstatic that someone wanted to take care of me forever. But I’d been fending for myself for too long. I’d tasted the sweet victory of self-reliance. I wasn’t prepared to face the virtually invisible antiquated formulas that sneak up to smack you in the ego when you get married. The ones you need a machete and night-vision goggles to deal with.

Seriously, why is it that women’s liberation has given us such concise definitions and laws of freedom to live by when we are single and left us totally baffled and unprepared when it comes to managing our independence when we are married? Why does compromise sometimes seem like the enemy of freedom?

When we are single, we are constantly bombarded by the image of the independent woman. She’s trendy, not afraid of casual sex, devoted to her job and adamant about her weekly pedicures. She doesn’t need a man to enjoy her sensuality, and her friendships with other single women are just as vital to her as that skim latte she imbibes each morning on her way to work.

She makes a well-intentioned attempt to live life the way men do, but when she gets married she’s expected to swap her feminine interpretation of those masculine values for the traditional ideal of the nurturing matriarch. This transition is practically impossible.

I needed a new definition of the word matron. We all do. But unfortunately, we’re going to be winging it for a while, so I started to look for ways to redefine my roles and values as a matron. The thing was, I couldn’t do it alone.

It took me a while to figure it out, but you know what I did? I told my husband, I communicated, and I expressed my distress. I told him I needed to get out more. And you know what? He understood. Times are such that my husband wasn’t put off by the idea of me having such feelings. (Huge sigh of relief.) Since I’d moved away with him, I’d been working from home freelancing, but he suggested I apply for a job.

I also brought to his attention that he would need to be a bit more, um, tidy since I’d have less time to take care of the domestic issues. And he complied…mostly. We also worked out a few weekends during which I could go see my friends and family in my hometown. He missed me when I was gone and I missed him, but we always had a sexy reunion to make up for the lost time, and with the added income from my job, we were able to save up for some wonderful trips!

The point is, I learned how to set my own boundaries and rules, not without the help of the very amazing fellow I married. I’m not going to lie. It’s probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, and I still have uncharted territory to traverse. But I’m on my way to living happily ever after. My husband and I are closer than ever, and as I look around our condo today, it’s home – sometimes a messy one, albeit, but it’s the best home I’ve ever had because I share it with my best friend.