결혼 전 나는 남자들에게 차이고 상처받을 때마다 성숙해졌다. 괴롭고 슬프다기보다는 오히려 정신이 번쩍 들며 머리가 맑아지고 편안해졌다.
“요즈음은 너에게 전화하는 녀석도 없냐? 사귀는 사람 없어?”
Stories that have appeared in the Korea Daily since 2008.
Do we really grow through pain?
Before I got married, I always felt more mature after getting hurt or dumped by men. Instead of feeling sad or broken, my mind would become strangely clear and calm.
A long time ago, my boyfriend and I went dancing with a friend who had just gone through a breakup. We wanted to cheer her up. We stayed too late at the hotel nightclub and missed the curfew. The three of us ended up going to a hotel room. My boyfriend said he was tired and went into the room—then, my drunken friend followed him in. I was left alone. I wandered the streets of Chungmuro at dawn, the click-clack of my high heels echoing around me.
At home, my mother had stayed up all night waiting for me. My father was furious and threatened to break my legs.
“Where were you? Where did you sleep?”
Just then, the phone rang. I ran to answer it—it was my boyfriend calling from the hotel. As soon as I picked up, he started yelling:
“How could you do this?”
He blamed me for leaving him alone with my friend, saying I must not have loved him. I simply said, “I’m sorry,” and hung up. That was the last time we spoke.
Later, my friend came over and apologized, crying:
“I must’ve been crazy. Stupid alcohol!”
We agreed never to talk about that night again, and things went back to normal between us.
Eventually, she made up with her ex and got engaged. On a sunny spring morning at 11 AM, I went to her wedding at a hall in Chungmuro. My clothes smelled like gasoline because I had picked them up last-minute from the dry cleaners. I approached her in her wedding dress and said:
“Congratulations.”
“Ugh! What is that smell?”
She waved her hands and told me to stand farther away.
Embarrassed, I stepped back—but not too far. I had to catch the bouquet. I followed her around, determined to get it, thinking maybe it would finally be my turn to marry. She tossed the bouquet to me with a satisfied smile, then left for her honeymoon. As I watched her car disappear, I wondered where I would find a man to marry. All my friends were getting married, and I was still walking the streets of Chungmuro alone, heels clicking on the pavement.
And just like he said, I met a man after some time in New York. But even after two years of dating, he never mentioned marriage. I finally gave in. I swallowed my pride—sank it deep into the Hudson River—and bought two wedding rings myself. I dragged him into a yellow cab, took him to City Hall, and married him. I just wanted to ease my parents’ worries.
But their worries never really ended. My father told me he sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, haunted by the thought of me suddenly showing up at his door with a suitcase, divorced and heartbroken.
Honestly, I don’t think my pride will ever resurface from the bottom of the Hudson River—not while my father’s still alive. Even when it tries to rise up, I push it back down. Again and again.
Because if it makes my aging father smile, my pride is a small price to pay.