MaryB and the City

Leap of faith.

Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. Luke 23:34.

Here’s the difference. I do know what I’m doing, and yet, I can’t help myself. I’m being that girl.

While on the cusp of finishing Emily Giffin’s book, Baby Proof, this paragraph stopped me in my tracks. It sums up the current state of my neurosis union beautifully:

“It’s not fair, I think, and then instantly dislike myself for having one of the single most maladjusted and counterproductive thoughts a woman in a crisis can have. Life’s not fair, I tell myself. Everyone over the age of ten knows that.”

In related news, This article summed up the similar sentiments, too:

“If a woman stays single much past the age of 30, then she is fair game for scrutiny. The narrative is clear: No bridesmaid’s story is complete until she becomes the bride.”

Let me rewind for a moment.

It’s a pretty well-documented fact that 95% of my peers are married, and at least 50% of them have children [it would be 96% if my best friend’s engagement hadn’t come to an end in October — but it too is also well-documented that the nuptials did not work out]. And so, she has stayed my tried & true single sidekick, holding strong in the 5th percentile.

Mr. Big and I have been courting for the better part of the last 9 1/2 years.

I am one month away from turning 32.

I am legally single.

I have no offspring.

Now that the pivotal, society-driven lifetime milemarker stats are out of the way, allow me to get right to the point of why I’m asking God to forgive me; the girl that knows better.

Since I’ve sported nine bridesmaid dresses since 1994, and have taken the path of most resistance in a long-term romantic relationship, I just naturally expected that I would be the next person to get married among my siblings. It’s finally my turn to retire the typecast supporting role and take a leading lady-in-white position. I’ve earned it, I’ve served my time, or something twisted like that.

There are six of us total, and the four eldest have all met and married their match. I’m technically next in line. Not only have I always assumed I would be next because numerically it is in sequence, because I’m four years older than my little brother, but also because I’ve been dating my significant other 4x as long as he has his companion.

So, naturally, I was next. Right?

Wrong.

On May 8, 2011, just after midnight, I was in Long Island visiting said siblings for right of passage religious ceremonies in honor of my niece and nephews. Like any respectable extensive Irish Catholic family, we celebrated with spirits - lots of them. We drank and drank, and drank between lunch, dinner, dessert and beyond.

My youngest family member, also known as #6, out of the blue told me - he’d be proposing to his girlfriend in 6 weeks. He quickly followed up by explaining it was a secret, no one knew…not even our parents.

Talk about mixed emotions. For starters, I love him and have felt quite protective for as long as I can remember. Despite the fact he is literally a foot taller than me now, and despite the fact he is metaphorically a grown ass man, still - he’s my little brother.

I am extremely fond of his lady companion, and want nothing but happiness for #6; absolute fulfillment and joy, forever and ever, amen. She is just a doll and I’m thrilled that she will be my 4th sister-in-law. I also felt super humbled and honored that he confided this sacred information with me.

At the same time, a stabbing pain to the likes of Bruce Lee’s samurai sword broke through my chest cavity and inserted directly into my heart. No, no no no, no no. This can’t happen. He can’t lap me, too; this-wasn’t-supposed-to-happen. This was not the plan.

I cried. Like an asshole. My little brother tells me this amazing secret, and I cried, because I felt bad for myself.

The next morning, sober and ashamed, I apologized…and regretted my irrevocable response. Luckily he grinned [perhaps out of compassion for his scorned older sister] and was able to forgive my tainted reaction. Meanwhile I’ve been desperately trying to make-up for my drunken-and-unable-to-cover-up-my-underlying-feelings - by checking in on the ring construction status, inquiring about “Will you marry me” planning logistics, among other related questions surrounding the upcoming unforgettable day.

I only silently mourned my disintegrated fantasy for about 24-hours; that was all I allowed myself to really feel bad about it. Then, I pulled up my big girl, curvy style cut pants, and willed my ego and pride to move on. On a few unexpected occassions, a pity party thought would wash through my conscienceness, but I would immediately send the vanity virus back out into the universe [as it turns out, this is something I’ve gotten pretty skilled at accomplishing with age].

Two short weeks later, I went out to see the movie, Bridesmaids, with my manfriend’s only sister. She too is younger, by five years. And she, too, has been dating her fella for about 1/5 of my relationship’s span with Mr. Big. While we were killing time before entering the theater, she said to me (just as sweet and innocent as she can be):

“So I wanted to ask you something. Me and my boyfriend are planning on getting engaged, likely in the fall. But I didn’t want you to be upset, since…well, you know…”

Now this time, the innocuous reaction was quite the opposite to that of my brother’s news; this time I laughed out loud. I explained why I was chuckling [repeat story above] and her face froze. The circumstance was just too funny not to appreciate the irony — considering the premise and title of what we were getting ready to watch on the big screen, let alone the news I had learned, swallowed, and attempted to move on from only 14 days earlier.

Of course I encouraged her not to change her life plans simply because mine hadn’t worked out as I may have expected. And, once again, I gave myself 24-hours to process the anxiety, embarrassment, and confusing feelings brewing inside. Then I would spend the next few weeks contemplating this:

Life never goes according to our plan.

Mr. Big and I had our own journey, with an uncanny timeline. We’ve broken up more times than Ross & Rachel did on Friends, but have always come back together - sometimes for worse, but mostly for better. Our friends who walked down the aisle before us have not had the history we have. Our younger brother & sister are taking the typical approach to next steps in a serious courtship while cruising through their mid-to-late twenties. I remind myself that *that* is normal.

Call it unfortunate, or just “life” ~ but that wasn’t my path. Mine has had some extra detours, stops off the beaten path, and whirlwind experiences; as cliche and scripted as this sounds, I unequivocally believe that down to the strands of my DNA…I’m better off today because of where I’ve been.

The day has quickly arrived and my little brother will pop The Question today. I will drive to D.C. to her birthday party / undercover engagement announcement gathering. I will hug them both tight, lust over what is sure to be a stunning diamond on her finger, and take back a few shots of tequila alone in the corner and congratulate the beginning of the rest of their lives together.

Mr. Big and I will get there, we will. And until then, I will vacillate between two worlds, trying to find my equilibrium. The first step has been to recognize my story is different than my inner and outer circle. The next step will be to fully accept it.

And take a giant leap of faith that it will have all been, more than, worth it.