No one likes to be the last one picked.
It sucks rocks.
And it crushes what confidence you might have mustered just to enter the game in the first place.
So what happens to a woman’s sense of self when she is the “last” to be picked in the game of love?
Perhaps she begins to struggle with doubt as to her very worth as a woman.
She is in every sense made perfectly to be his helpmeet.
And if that helpmeet never comes to select her.
How perfect can she truly be in her singleness?
Jill Scott has a song entitled, One Is The Magic.
The lyrics speak to the perfect complete balance of that sacred number.
But how about those who say different?
Those that attest that the perfect complete balanced sacredness of the number one is only achieved when the two cleave together to create it.
Can both schools of thought be correct?
Or does one have to rule the playground?
I don’t have an answer to that dilemma.
But what I do believe is that being picked last eats away at your soul.
No matter how happy, successful, fulfilled and loved.
That part of a woman that is meant to walk by the side of a man.
Dies a little each time she isn’t picked.