I Will Tell About It

Like I mentioned earlier this week, there was a picnic for graduating honors seniors. It was mostly fine. I ran into Mikey, and he told me all about his plans to go to New York. I ran into Courtney, and she told me all about her plans to go to Japan. I told them I was still waiting. I increasingly hate the waiting. I want to tell them that I have a plan, and it involves things. Mikey and Courtney are gracious people; neither of them made me feel bad for not having anything definite, but this doesn't help me feel better.
I didn't know the vast majority of people there. There was a couple there, Lauren and Paul, and they had just gotten engaged last night. I don't know why, but it bothered me. Looking at her face, which still had childhood's freckles, and his face, unpocked. There was something too young about them. The only thing I could think about was Kristina's smart remark a few weeks back about getting married young and having a tiny ring. Their ring made me think of the rings children find in their cereal, the kind that little girls play with when they are playing princess. She picked the tomatoes off her sandwich and gave them to him.
I walked home. I slept. I had a strange dream that I've had before and has nothing to do with this. And then I realized what it was that was bothering me as I woke. Looking at them, I went back to May 1937, the Sharon Olds poems. I've always liked this poem. I've always thought that I understood the angst of knowing how deeply your parents hate each other. And I still do, but now I understand why when people my age say they are getting married, or do get married, why I think "No. You don't understand how bad this could be. Be smart. Don't do this."
But how could I tell people that? It's easy to dismiss me; after all, I've spent the last three years avoiding long-term relationships. I'm finally ready, emotionally-speaking, to try again, to really try again, with some I love, but I've discovered recently that there's no one that feels the same about me. And I could be bitter about that, but then I think of this poem. I think of books on hips, of marriage, of "we would never hurt anyone," of wrong men, of suffering, of hunger, and of paper dolls, and then finally I think "No. I'm choosing. I am choosing to take things slow. I'm choosing to be smart."