Month: December 2015

A List Against Shacking

Shacking up is not on my to-do list.

Call me selfish, close-minded, or old-fashioned, but I do NOT believe in living with your partner/significant other before getting married—aka “shacking up.”

Let me first say I have nothing against those who do; it’s just my personal preference.  And here’s why:

  1. I value my independence

We all have values. Mine include a strong emphasis on privacy, independence, and flexibility. I want to have my own space where I can come home to my own things the way I like them, to come and go at my own pace, to have whoever over whenever and ultimately do as I please without having to consider anyone else (except perhaps neighbors).

  1. I am old-fashioned

More than my independence, it’s more of a traditional value for me. I’ve grown up hearing how you shouldn’t live with the opposite sex before marriage and witnessed how it was shamed. Thus, I have developed the mindset of marriage being the solidifier to “happily ever after.” It is the event, the covenant, in which I give myself solely and wholly to you. Where we are no longer two, but one ’til death do us part. It is the time where we build together: buying a house, merging finances, having children, etc. So can you blame me for wanting to be a wee bit selfish now? Besides, if we do everything a married couple does BEFORE we’re married, where’s the joy in being married? I want moving in together to be a milestone, when we can begin to grow in our marriage. I want to have all the typical problems normal couples have after sealing the deal for their house. If a ring is the only thing that changes, I fear complacency. Some may argue we can still buy a house, we can still make memories, but that’s not the point.

  1. It gets complicated

Shacking up complicates things. I’ve seen too many instances when couples move in prematurely and then become dissatisfied with their relationship, but are put in an awkward situation when deciding how to go about dissolving their “cohabitation.”  There are other instances when things like pregnancy, distance (from home), finances, etc. force people to stay in situations and relationships they otherwise would not be in.

Ultimately, whether you live together or not it is a decision between you and your partner. I think it CAN be absolutely fine and work out; it just requires a certain level of maturity between the individuals, as well as a strong foundation. Either way, if you ever need some space, know that my couch is always open (that is, when I get a couch of my own)!



I didn’t always know what the word “woman” meant.

Definitionally, it’s easy:

It is an adult human being, distinctively feminine in nature, “woman” being one of the two binary terms we usually use to describe gender.

The “gender” becomes “woman” when you get the blood in your shorts not from being beaten, but from being egged.

Definitonally, I was a woman by 10.

5th grade led to the blood in my shorts, and blood leaping out of my soul, trying to drain myself of everything that was me, even though the “me” had just been defined as “woman.”

And with that, I got some chocolate and BAM! A bona fide beautiful body that had bashfully become “it,” “woman.”

“Woman” was supposed to describe all the things out of place, all the things I wasn’t yet ready for, but seemed to have anyway.

And people continued to call me “it.” At 11, I had a normal woman’s cup size. At 12, I was told I could be a good mother. At 13, I had womanly hips.

“Woman” and “mother” soon began to fill in the blanks that no one could find the words for: “mature” in body and mind, an old soul that had been fit in a young body. “Woman” meant all the things the people five years older than me had that I possessed at 13 by dumb luck.

I was proud of being defined as that “woman.”

But then I grew up. “Woman” no longer meant that you were motherly and mature. It meant that you were a magical materialistic mammal who used the melody of her hips and breasts to get what she wants. And suddenly, I was no longer definable because I didn’t define myself by my body—as a matter of fact, I hid from it.

I wasn’t “woman” because I hated wearing the denim underwear that everyone else seemed to love, because I’d rather sleep than slave over make-up, because I’d rather eat than even think about giving my body anything less than what it deserved.

The world was telling me that I was not a sexy “real woman” because I wasn’t the standard beautiful, because my body wasn’t more important to me than my brain.

“Real women” wore their sexiness on their sleeve instead of their soul.

But, I can tell you right now that I don’t give two shits if you think that being “woman” is just about tits and ass. I can tell you from experience, being a real “woman” is about both tits and tenacity, ass and other assets.

Being “woman” means that I can make the choice everyday to be called “slut” or “saint,” and that I don’t need to be defined by either.

Being “woman” means that I understand that my brain can seduce just as much as figure, being “woman” means that my sway and brain waves go at the same frequency and no, they aren’t mutually exclusive.

So whichever definition you like—I’m both. Go ahead. Call me “mother” because she had to have a little fun to earn that word. Call me “woman” ‘cause I can take you down by the click, click, click of my heels and the tick, tick, tick of my heart.

Definition-ally, emotionally, mentally, morally, physically—I fit because I decided.

I know what “it” means.