the-monday-girl

When you__e spent your whole life not being good enough, it takes time to let yourself believe that you finally are. Self-worth isn__ a switch that flips inside you. It__ a daily struggle not to sabotage your own success. Not to cave into the voices inside your head that whisper you__e not good enough, or you__l fuck things up, or that someone else could do things better than you.

Marrying one woman doesn__ mean spending your life with one woman, because the funny girl you fall in love with on a first date at twenty-eight eventually becomes the fascinating creature you propose to at thirty, then evolves into the stunning bride you wait for at the end of an aisle at thirty-two, and finally grows into the astounding mother to your children at thirty-four. By forty, she has blossomed into the businesswoman, the force to be reckoned with. By the time you__e fifty or sixty or seventy or a hundred, she__ been everything _ your wife, your lover, your friend, your companion, your sous-chef, your travel partner, your life coach, your confidant, your cheerleader, your critic, your most stalwart advisor. She grows with you. She changes with you. She is always stable, but never stagnant. She is not one woman. She is a thousand versions of herself, a multitude of layers, an infinite ocean whose depths you plumb over a lifetime, whose many treasures and intricacies, quirks and idiosyncrasies you need an entire marriage to explore._ His voice softens. __ man should be so lucky to spend his life stuck with one woman such as that.

I am not the Juliet to his Romeo. I am not the lodestar around which he orbits. I am not the trade wind by which he sets the course of his sails. I am not essential or exceptional.I was his Monday girl. Shitty, really, since he was my whole damn week.