I’ve always loved my single life. Scratch that — I’ve always loved my life. Thinking about it as a single girl’s existence usually only came up when in the company of coupled people. That’s when I most often found myself pattering on about if there was someone new, special, or worthy of the “we.”  If there was, I committed to blushing gushes about “the guy.” If not, it was stated, then we rolled on to other topics –– and there were plenty of other topics. My life was full, and the “single” aspect of it was just one aspect. I was open to whatever couplings life brought — including the ultimate coupling, my husband — but I didn’t trick myself into prioritizing something I was not ready for.   As a child and into adulthood, I thought about –– even fantasized about –– my wedding. But it was more the magazine spread edition: what I would wear, where it would be, what that first kiss as a married couple would look like. It was like I was always planning the Instagram post. I know, I know, I can already hear the mumblings of “this is why we have a 50% divorce rate in this country.” What I am trying to say is: aware that I wasn't ready for the complexity and depth of marriage, it was easiest to focus on the surface –– the wedding. In my twenties, as friend after friend paired off into ever-after, I eagerly planned bridal showers, enthusiastically performed bachelorette duties, and loved getting lost in the romance of the wedding day. But I never felt the pressure to find dates for weddings or events, or to be paired off myself. My life was about entertainment and work — far too often, in that order. I loved only having to think about me — who I wanted to visit, what country I wanted to live in, what jobs I wanted to take. I loved the get-up-and-go freedom of single life, and I considered myself a “girl on the go.”   I would bounce to South Beach on a wing and a prayer with just enough money for a four-girl room share at the dingiest hotel on the strip, with my return flight landing just in time for me to drag myself to work.  My closet was packed with sassy dresses and flirty heels to support my “living it up” lifestyle and, when I couldn’t afford a new “look”, I prided myself on my ability to construct a ballgown from a tablecloth and a safety pin. I didn’t have to consult anybody when I decided to move to London for grad school, or when I decided to move back. And this freedom went for the tough times, too. When a family member was involved in a serious car accident, I didn’t have to consult with anyone to move to be closer to them, and when I found myself in debt after two unexpected surgeries, I didn’t have to consult with anyone to move in with my parents to get out of it.   I was only responsible for myself, and it was up to me if I wanted to honor or ignore that responsibility. Sometimes, the choice was a coin toss.