Bibble.

It seems like every couple was blissfully happy at one time. The 'you hang up first' /'no you hang up first'-type, or the 'kissing in the middle of the cereal aisle in the way of my Cap'n Crunch'-type. The 'content living on love, three kids and a fixed rate mortgage, we-aint-got-a-yard-so-we-don't-need-a-picket-fence'-type people.

And then life happens.

Some shit that knocks you off course. Big shit. Little shit. Just.... shit.

Could be something that, at first, you thought was cute and quirky. His sarcasm. Stubbornness. Her nurturing. Particularism. Until he belittles you under his breath with a witty comment while his friends listen on-- just for a laugh. Or the way she follows behind you, nagging about the damn toilet seat always being up and your damn dirty boxers on the bathroom floor for the third time that week.

I was the girl who used to dream of the 'cereal aisle' love. I never brought into the equation dirty boxers or witty comments-- not to mention all the other shit that can happen-- finances, kids, health issues: life. In my adult years I felt like I was bombarded with signs-- scratch that—neon blinking billboards with moving parts and sound-- living, breathing testimonies of why commitment-- and ultimately, marriage-- wasn't for me. After all, if you see others who have made a mistake and you have the chance to learn from it, aren't you more of a fool to follow in their footsteps?

So I had resolved in my mind and heart to swear off love.

Cuddling? Nah. I'd keep that.
Sex? That was a necessity.
But love? Love was for the birds.

Love cares, and care worries; I wanted a carefree, worry-free, easy going life.

I hurt a lot of people in the process, including you. And if you're reading this, I'm sorry.

Who knows? Maybe I'll get out on my own and a few months later I'll be ready for all this I've been trying to push away. Maybe you can come visit me and never leave. Maybe you'll be engaged and it'll be too late.

I guess its too late to change my mind.

I truly know now what you felt. But it's rude for me to take you away from something that seems to be working for you now, only because it doesn't work for me in the future.

“...But if we step past this transition there is so much we'll be missing in our lives such as 'you and I' so should we swallow this frustration and hope that this temptation will subside? Or should we just try....” -Eric Roberson

Hopeful.

Traditionally, a hope chest is a box containing items of clothing and household goods in anticipation of marriage.

I am not a traditionalist. Clearly.

But as someone who has never lived alone (and no, college does not count)-- someone who longs for a space that is all hers-- the idea of a hope chest is kinda catchy (less “I HOPE some man comes and takes me away” more “I HOPE I ever get to use this stuff in my own place”). Especially when, logistically and financially, that goal seems so far off.

Savings accounts are nice, but-- lets face it, not much fun. And when all your money is stored away in a savings account, it's hard to 'see' the good it's doing. It would help me to have some tangible collection of things to add to and look at to keep hope alive (no pun intended).

As soon as this epiphany hit me, I immediately saw in my head the type of chest I wanted: A wooden box. Simple. Solid. Clean lines. No embellishments or frills. Stained a dark cherry. With a lock (to add some mystery and maybe some cheesy symbolism) Now of course, and as usual, my imagination will probably become my detriment because I won't find exactly what I want (or I will find it and it'll be extremely expensive) but maybe, just maybe I can find an old chest that I can strip and refurbish. Something I could pass on to a future child (or sell to some sucka for a fortune on ebay)

Armed with Ikea catalogs and Bed Bath and Beyond coupons, I started a list of necessities for 'My New Place'..... well at least the things that would fit into a chest. The first thing that came to mind was a garlic press. So random. So trivial. So.... perfect. I determined that would be my first purchase. I have wanted a garlic press for so long. Almost as long as I have wanted a Kitchen-Aid mixer. Almost. Don't know why I hadn't bought one, as much as I cook with garlic. No one wants spend ten minutes pasting up garlic for every meal.

Then, the more I thought, the longer the list got and when I was near finished, it was more like a wish list (Hey, a girls got to dream). More than keeping my spirits high, this hope chest represents a change of mindset for me. A kind of refocusing.

I like this feeling.

I don't know what to call it. Probably, hope. *chuckles*