I do believe there comes a time in every young woman's life where she thinks she has to decide what type she's going to be. Perhaps as a child she imagined herself as a doting wife and mother. Growing up she had a first love, a second one, maybe a third. None of them stuck. As a young adult maybe she gave up on love altogether. She was not fit for it. Too good for it. She was free to experiment. This was exhilarating at first but eventually she was confronted with the realization that this was not who she wanted to be. She settled down a bit and re-evaluated. Tried the love shoe on for size again. It fit!
Maybe she eventually allowed herself to share a home with the one man whom she considered putting a ring on her finger for, only to realize she was scared shitless. Who was she? What did she really want? What had happened to the days where falling in love gave her butterflies like her high school sweetheart did? Why was she unable to sleep or wake up without the dreadful weight of impending doom waving her down?
She may have decided to up and leave. Fuck it. She could do it on her own. Find a new place that was only hers. Buy a puppy that would be her love child. Paint her walls green and blue, convincing herself that the colors would instantly change her gloomy outlook on who she was and who she was destined to become.
She took the love shoe off again.
The phrase, "all you know is all you know" may have resounded in her head like a gong, and flashbacks of her first example of commitment and marriage full of broken dishes, curse words and slammed and broken doors made her nervous. Without knowing it, maybe she had carried the example in a tiny box in her pocket. Most of the time she forgot it was there but when she felt nervous about taking the plunge, she stuffed her hands in the pocket and found it there, comforting her: You will become what you fear, it told her. You are not meant for this type of stuff.
Even though the sight of babies takes her breath away and the idea of "the one" makes her smile inside.
Could she give herself to anyone? Was she capable of healthy love?
She had a feeling she would be a good mother if she ever had the chance, and maybe even a loving partner, if she ever allowed herself to just freaking relax.
Maybe there is no type. Maybe that's how it works. Once you stop trying to arrange it all, it falls into place. Maybe 1 am on a Sunday night is not the time to be wallowing in emotionalism.