I love this thought so much. I love this writer too.
Until a few years ago, I’d never really watched a parade, but one Thanksgiving, as I was spending time with a wonderful mentor and mother figure, we got comfy on her couch and sighed happily as the floats edged their way across the screen. The costumes were over the top, gaudy, and covered in sequins, exactly what I’ll wear one day if I’m ever in a parade. There were choreographed dances with batons and ribbons, and marching bands flown in from around the country. Happiness and exuberance fell like snowflakes, coating the whole thing in rosy hope.
This, my friends, is what the single life is meant to be. Was the whole purpose of that parade to get from Point A to point B as quickly as possible? Absolutely not. The purpose of that parade was to play music at deafening levels, to pass out fifteen tons of candy, and to prove that middle-aged dancers can still do the splits on moving floors.
How boring it would be if everyone left their glitter and tutus home and ran from First Street all the way to the corner of Market and Main. People do that—it’s called a race. And your success is only measured by how fast you make it to the finish line. Those who don’t finish are either gravely injured or worthy of our deepest pity.
We have to stop treating the single life like it’s a race to the altar. I’m ready for my parade. I’m ready to trade in my sneakers for a tiara and a sash as I do a princess wave from atop a float. I’m tired of racing toward an invisible finish line that keeps moving farther away the closer I get. I’m tired of staring enviously at the girls who are passing me (and all the while pushing aside my thoughts of tripping them). I’m tired of placing all my hopes and dreams on crossing a finish line that may never come.
I want to enjoy the journey. I want to take pride in the parade that is my life. –Party of One, Joy Beth Smith, p. 26-27
Stop the race. Enjoy your parade.