Taxi!

There’s a theory. Miranda Hobbes invented it, delivered it in a Manhattan bathroom with the conviction of a woman who had seen it one too many times. That men are like taxicabs:

“Men are like cabs; when they’re available, their light goes on. They wake up one day, and they decide they’re ready to settle down, have babies, whatever, then they turn their light on.”

It’s probably no surprise I’m writing about it.

If you haven’t guessed already, or if you have the rare and enviable gift of a life outside of pop culture, this one was set off by Harry Styles proposing to Zoë Kravitz after eight months of dating. Eight months.

Now, in this current era of situationships, soft launches, and the slow fade, I genuinely cannot decide if eight months is devastatingly short or impressively long. I think it depends entirely on where you are in your cycle or how good the sex is. I’ve personally turned a blind eye to entire personality flaws for good sex, so I’m not here to judge.

Being 25, almost 26, basically pushing 30, we are all living inside this strange, swirling period where the algorithm serves us engagements and babies and promotions and European holidays, all in the same scroll. It’s a lot. It can be difficult to keep up or even try not to compare yourself to those you see online.

In this case, I believe it was Styles’ engagement that genuinely shocked people and, in a way, forced us all to sit and think about where we are within our own relationships and other engagements. And to a certain degree, it made us women think back to the TaxiCab Theory.

Here’s the thing: I can name several men right now who fit this theory to the letter. Travelled. Lived. Got the apartment, got the promotion, got comfortable with the idea of regular sex and Sunday farmers’ markets. And then, click, the light went on. They fell in love, or something adjacent to it, proposed or are about to, and everyone clapped. But I keep asking the question nobody seems to want to sit with:

What about her?

What about the woman on the other side of that proposal? Did she get a say in the timing, or did she just happen to be standing on the right corner when the cab pulled up? Is she chosen, or is she convenient? And if the entire internet is celebrating this eight-month proposal through the lens of him being ready, where does she actually fit in this theory? Do women get a choice in this, or have we been so thoroughly convinced that being chosen is the choice?

Which brings me to something I don’t love admitting. Actually, that’s a complete lie. Ask me about my wedding, and I will hand you a laminated itinerary.

I have a Pinterest board. A detailed one. (Oscar once looked at it and developed what I can only describe as temporary lockjaw.) I have known what I want my engagement ring to look like since I was sixteen. It’s a black diamond, since you asked. I have opinions on florals, venues, and the exact quality of afternoon light I want in my photographs. I have planned this moment, this specific moment of being asked, for longer than I have planned most things in my actual adult life. Full disclaimer: I want the engagement and the wedding more than I want the actual marriage. I am also, by my own admission, completely insane.

And still, it terrifies me. Not because wanting those things is wrong. But because I have to ask myself, with genuine honesty: if someone proposed to me tomorrow, would I have the clarity to evaluate whether it was right? Or would the sheer intoxication of the moment, the ring, the story, the becoming-a-fiancée of it all, sweep me clean past the question before I even thought to ask it?

Here’s where I want to get feminist about it. We have socialised women to want the proposal so completely, so thoroughly, that we’ve made it genuinely difficult to think straight when it actually arrives. And I mean that structurally, not personally, this isn’t about any individual woman lacking discernment. This is about a culture that has spent centuries telling women that the goal is to be chosen, and then acts baffled when women accept proposals that aren’t quite right for them. The excitement of being someone’s (of having the story, the ring, the identity to step into) is a powerful drug. Powerful enough to make inconvenient questions feel ungrateful. Powerful enough to make ‘are you sure?’ feel like the wrong thing to be asking yourself at what is supposed to be the happiest moment of your life.

So how do we know if we’re getting into the right cab? Honestly, I’m not sure there are rules. But I think there are questions. Real ones. Does he want you, your specific chaos, your opinions, your 47-item wedding itinerary, or does he want the version of his life that comes with a partner in it? Is there a difference between being loved and being selected? And crucially, are you saying yes because you want to spend your life with this person, or because the alternative is standing on the curb watching the cab pull away, wondering if another one is coming?

That last one is the one that keeps me up at night. Because the fear of the empty street is real, and it has absolutely talked women into taxis they didn’t want to be in.

Maybe this is all idealistic. Maybe timing is always part of love, for everyone, in both directions. Maybe no love is entirely clean of convenience, and that’s okay. But I think the least we can do, the very least, is pause before we climb in. Look at the driver. Check where the cab is actually going. Because being chosen is lovely. But knowing why you were chosen?

Hm.

I want to be with someone who chooses me specifically, not because the light happened to flick on while I was nearby, but because they looked at me and thought: Her. This particular, impossible, yet not too impossible person. (Brave statement). Her.

But who knows where that cab is? Truthfully, I’m not in a particular rush anyway; I’m happy to walk.

Part 1 of a mini-series I will be doing—the next one comes next Sunday. A mini series discussing where women lie within the relationship cliches/standards, or so-called standards. I hope you enjoy.

That’s all for now! Thanks for reading my mind this month, I hope you enjoyed and felt a bit of love thrown your way. Remember, you are always worth the mess!

My social media is @imojenwilley / @imojenkatherine. Follow along for any updates or if you simply just want to chat! Save, share, and tell me your thoughts! I’ll be uploading every month and sometimes even as a treat on the side.

Forever & always,

Im’s Xx