Okay, here’s my concession. And my challenge. I am done trying. Done “putting myself out there.” I’m not even open for business. But if you have anybody for me, God, if my children are important enough to be brought into existence and into the arms of a woman who doesn’t even trust herself with children after the heights of rage one un-housebroken dog has brought her to, if there’s a man who will always be less for not having known me, then let me make him more by making him fight. I will never go through what I have been through, and I certainly won’t skip and jump toward it.
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I will be Rapunzel. Let that be my fairy tale alter ego. Sleeping Beauty was weak and no challenge at all. Let him get through the brambles that have grown up around me and then get to my walls. And let him figure out how to scale them without the ladder of my hair helping him along.
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Let me not fall so easily, nor even be twanging with awareness waiting for him to do something. Let my indifference be the tower. He wants me? He better be ready for a fight.
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Do I think this great hero will come? Do I think he’s actually going to see me, all closed-off and hermit-like, and be seized with the desire to make me his? Uh . . . that would be no. Am I giving myself over to romantic imaginings and wistful thinking, to follow hope like an underground current that this might happen? [See previous answer] But I am saying that that is the only way I will ever take on such titles as wife, or mother.
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I am not investing hope or hopelessness in this. Simply outlining my terms for surrender. And I am prepared for them not to be met. But you love a challenge, God. Those impossible circumstances. Well, I aim to please. Go to it.
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