How do you define yourself? I define myself as many things – a student, a Brummie (perhaps of the less stereotypical variety), a mathematician, a geek, a sewist, a Quaker, and so on and so forth. Essentially, though, I define me as me.
I was having this conversation with some friends the other day on the way back from a picnic. One of them has just got together with a new guy, and it’s looking serious already. We were talking about their future, in a loose hypothetical way, when something really struck me. H was talking about her career, her wants, and her life in general purely in terms of his. That’s all good, I suppose, from the point of view that by marrying someone you are tying your life into theirs and that somewhere along the way that is bound to involve a certain amount of compromise. But her aims in life seemed to revolve purely around her prospective husband’s – to quote, she would rather be the wife of a successful businessman than a successful businesswoman herself.
I’m sure that a lot of this stems from H’s rather traditional upbringing (; her mother will ‘allow’ her to leave home only in order to marry someone deemed suitable), and if that is what will make her happy then I wish her all the best. But at the same time, she is a highly intelligent postgrad, with strong views and ideals of her own, and is a lovely person to boot – and instinctively I don’t like the idea of H being transformed into ‘the wife of whoever’.
And for all I can see only too easily how it happens, I despair in the same way at those mothers (and yes, sorry guys, it does tend to be mothers) who find their personalities and lives absorbed into that of their children’s. Whenever I come into contact with women pushing a pram or pushchair, I make a real effort to engage with them, to meet their eyes without simply going gooey over their children, however cute the children may be. There are many things that I dread about potential motherhood and that’s a whole long story for counsellors to get their teeth into, but one of those is losing my identity to my children. I find myself feeling guilty sometimes for that childhood perspective of my own mother – she was my Mum, not C, not a primary-school teacher or an English/European Thought graduate or a keen walker. I guess that’s one of the things that I’m consciously trying to make up as I’ve grown older.
I’m quite pleased, for that reason, that J’s friends seem to know me as ‘Lucy’, not ‘J’s girlfriend’. I like having my own identity. It’s something I plan to hang on to.
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