A Personal Essay about your Left Hand
(written in a 19-year-old cubical next to the Physiology collection, otherwise known as the bronx of BYU's library)
I used to watch people sitting alone in the WILK, eating heated-up leftovers from the attempted casserole cooked the night before. They seemed content and I could never fathom their confidence. I always sat at a table with 9+ characters who all either had Chick-fil-A nuggets or an expensive protein bar (because status food, right?)
Well, I thought marriage was leftover casserole.
And after being married a month (yes, i'm considering myself a marriage guru),
I can see how marriage actually is.
Because casserole is the first love-child in a marriage. A young wife slaves over a collection of noodles and olives, and the husband holds his breath as he swallows each bite, forgetting that he never expressed his hatred for olives.
But new things and cheap things and compromising things and accepting things.
That's what marriage is.
I don't make casserole and the thought of it makes me want to have morning sickness
(not a pregnancy announcement),
but I think I understand my transition into marriage better
& oddly enough, it's taking my independent soul awhile to adjust.
And because I just compared the best thing ever to a pan of soggy noodles,
I'll sign off now.
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