Love is in the air! So the merchants say, as they prepare to foist their wares upon unsuspecting souls.
The new year barely settles in before Santa makes way for Cupid and his stash of chocolates, fluffy white bears and all things red and heart-shaped. Opportunistic advertisers pull out all the stops. They may find homes for that unsold champagne yet. Time to rework that New Year’s Day jingle…
All this while oodles of cheese and Easter bun orders linger in the wings.
Ah, yes! ‘Love’ is in the air alright – the love of money and commercialisation. Merchants ring their bells, promote a single night of passion and excitement, and they depend on the Pavlovian response of giddy couples to line their cavernous pockets.
*whisper* I need to share something with you that the advertisers will never tell you. Are you ready for it?
That is how long I lived with my family of origin before striking out on my own. There were the odd ‘extended stays’ beyond that, but those were not solid, uninterrupted blocks of time since I resided elsewhere, so – for the purpose of this post – I will exclude them.
Eighteen years. One month. One day.
That is how long I have been married to my beloved… I have now lived with my husband longer than I did with my family of origin. This does not make me a marriage expert by a long stretch, so feel free to take anything I say with several grains of salt.
J and I were probably the most unlikely candidates for long-term cohabitation. My family of origin looked reasonably sound from the outside but was seriously divisive on the inside, with divorced parents to boot. If a search was launched to find the least conspicuous whitewashed sepulchre, I am convinced that my family would have won the blue ribbon. Hands down. My beloved had parents who lived separate lives and his family life was colourful, to say the least.
No psychologist in their right mind would recommend such a union… but it was not up to a psychologist to decide.