Bringing sexy back.

I’ve never been one of those girls who naturally exudes eroticism, you know, like Carmen Electra on Baywatch. In fact, I hate wearing bathing suits, even one pieces.

My inner confidence that comes through on the outside is from being a thoughtful friend, exceeding expectations at work, and rocking a stiletto without tripping & falling [not once]. But no where in that crockpot of confidence is there a spot for sexiness.

Maybe it’s because I was surrounded by five males growing up and felt uncomfortable showing any cleavage. Maybe it’s because I was raised Catholic and the church instilled that laying horizontal with someone is only for the sanctity of marriage and strictly for producing babies. Maybe it’s because I’ve struggled with gaining weight ever since hitting puberty.

Last week I crossed the 90 day threshold of living with Mr. Big, after surviving a long distance dating scenario for one year. The day-to-day companionship has been lovely. Seeing his sunkissed skin, feeling the grip of his hand in mine, hearing his voice in the flesh, smelling his freshly bathed scent, looking into his eyes during a conversation, having the ability to kiss whenever we please for no reason at all.

Those simple moments are treasures. Every single day.

After existing on earth for 32 years, and 20 of those spent in monogamous relationships, one thing I know for sure is that making assumptions is a recipe for failure.

Two weeks before relocating to be with my long-term love, I changed my mind about marriage before moving. Previously I wanted at least a commitment of forever vows — but a candid conversation shifted that stance; we would try cohabitating [first] to make sure no monsters were hidden in our single’s closet.

Three months later, instead of assuming that our relationship is laced with fairy dust and rose petals, I asked.

“So, do you think I’m a monster?”

My little joke had another meaning. What I was really asking: “Are you happy with me, with us, or have you seen a different side of me than you expected? Do you want to marry me? Like, soon? Because I’m getting ansy. I don’t want to call you my manfriend anymore, I want to call you my husband. I love you and want to spend my life with you in a meaningful way. Honestly, I have also been feeling pressure all around me, from friends & family, and it’s weighing heavy on my shoulders. So, whatta say?”

Well, as it turns out — yes he wants to marry me, but there’s a caveat and it is in the form of a monster; that missing ingredient in my über confident facade persona which leads me to act like I’m celibate. That monster is about 30 pounds of extra weight. The monster is clingy, difficult to be around, has a major attitude. I absolutely loathe her.

Because the monster has taken over, manipulating my mind and body, I hide behind clothes. I feel safer covered up. And I certainly don’t want my lover to see my love handles. Unfortunately, that makes being intimate a major roadblock. I knew it, and was sorta hoping he wouldn’t notice or take issue with it. But wouldn’t ya know… I Googled the word “male” and testosterone showed up as the #1 search result; he winked at me. There is no hiding.

Mr. Big finds my curves sexy and couldn’t be more encouraging of me, svelte or with extra rolls to spare. But no matter how many reassurances that come out of his mouth, my kangaroo pouch still doesn’t fit into Victoria’s Secret garments. I’ve tried. The truth is that we can’t just be roommates. It isn’t fair to play hard-to-get.

It certainly doesn’t help that bachelors are inundated with warning messages from married men telling them that sex severely slows down once you get married, and now I’ve gone and become an overachiever before even becoming Mr. & Mrs.

Cliché as it may be, January 1st kicked off my journey back to health, and I’m already on my way to shedding insecurities and dusting off my sensual self. It’s time to come out of the shameful closet and face reality. I don’t want my manfriend to think his future life partner is a prude, quite simply, it’s just the pudge.

The cookie monster swallowed my confidence and I’m determined to bring sexy back.

loved by Love.

Dr. Maya Angelou

The truth is everybody probably has 250 epiphanies. The way you’re changed at ten prepares you to be changed again at fifteen, but you couldn’t have been changed at fifteen had you not had that change at ten. You see what I mean? Epiphany builds upon epiphany.

When I was maybe twenty-two or so, I was studying voice, and the voice teacher lived in my house and rented from me. He taught a number of accomplished actresses and singers, and they all studied in my house.

Once a month, the voice teacher asked us to come together and read from a book called Lessons in Truth. We all would read a page, or a half a page, whatever he assigned. And at one point, I was reading and read the line, “God loves me.”

And he stopped me and said, “Read it again.”

So I read it again: “God loves me.”

He said, “Again.”

And suddenly I became embarrassed. I was young and black, and everybody else was white and accomplished. And I felt he was really embarrassing me. Putting me on the spot. So I read it with ferocity—forcefully: “GOD. LOVES. ME.”

And, at that moment, I knew it. I knew it!

I thought, “God? That which made bees and mountains and water? That? Loves me? Maya Angelou? Well then, there’s nothing I can’t do. I can do anything good.”

Even now, telling you this some fifty years later, it still brings goose bumps to me. I could weep with joy at the knowledge that I am loved by Love itself.

This article is an excerpt from my book, Epiphany: True Stories of Sudden Insight to Inspire, Encourage, and Transform.

Ten.

On January 20, 2002, my friend Vivi passed away at 22-years-old. A drunk driver hit her car after running a red light. Ironically, she was the DD that night for friends who had been celebrating at a bachelorette party.

It was not his first DUI. The driver fled the scene and removed the plates from his limousine…in front of a Washington D.C. police station. Needless to say, he was caught, but did not serve nearly as much time as one would think.

She is one of my oldest comrades, growing up together in elementary, high school & college, attached at the hip. Vivi lived 5 minutes walking distance from my house and we had a lot in common. Her older brother and my older brother were in the same grade; her younger sister and my younger brother were in the same grade. We both sported unruly curly hair, had abnormally large athletic calves that could not fit into knee-high boots, and womanly curves that indefinitely taunted us to lose weight in an effort to not stick out next to our skinny minny friends.

We snuck out together, went shopping together, tried fad diets together, had sleepovers on a regular basis, and shared an unquenchable thirst for beauty products. And jewelry. And shoes. And boys.

Vivi was a force in this world of all things that are right.

Her skin literally glowed. Let me be clear — not metaphorically — but genuinely glowed (ok perhaps somewhat from an oily teenage epidermis, but mostly from the essence of her goodness).

The last time I saw her was 29 days prior to the tragedy. We were invited to a mutal friend’s Christmas party; I picked her up on the way over. While I waited for her to finish getting ready, I chatted with her beautiful younger sister {who today, is the spitting image of Vivi}. The experience was meaningful and our time together was high quality. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be my final encounter in her presence.

Mr. Big and I had just started dating. We were at his parents’ house, watching TV and eating lunch when the phone rang. It was the Christmas party host, our mutual friend on the line, who called to tell me the news. My manfriend came with me to the funeral a few days later, and was introduced to my Mother for the first time under horrific circumstances.

I wish he could have met known Vivi.

I’m notorious to have an unexplainable, acute intuition. Although I did not predict or even fathom that she would die a short while later, I did look at her differently the night of our party. I vividly remember gazing at her, observing her in a very distinct, almost surreal point of view. She was telling a story about her hairdresser, laughing, brown eyes sparkling. I consciously thought to myself from across the room, “she’s amazing” — and became temporarily lost in her radiance.

There is a sacred space inside my heart that believes this moment was a gift to me, in preparation for her passing. Vivi inadvertently taught me how to be present in the moment.

That is a gift I have held onto ever since and it changed my life far greater than I could even begin to explain. The expression to *treat everyday as if it could be your last* is not some new-age, warm and fuzzy rhetoric. It’s real.

Ten years ago today Vivi left this earth, and, left the single-greatest possession behind in the will of our friendship.

Consciousness. 

Got milk?

I stumbled across a recent article on living together before marriage, specifically:

5 Reasons You Should Live Together Before Getting Married

From adolescence to approximately the age of 30, I was convinced…both by my Catholic school brainwashing as well as alleged “scientific” studies against shacking up, that I would not cohabitate before a wedding. I would faithfully and shamelessly charge full price for my milk if the bachelor wouldn’t buy the cow.

Ironically, Mr. Big is lactose intolerant and can’t consume too much dairy at one time. Shocking, I know.

The reporter in me even took over at times, surveying countless Mr. & Mrs. couples about their personal experience on the subject. Without fail, a long laundry list of pros and cons were compiled. In other words, no clear answer.

When Mr. Big & I lived in the same city (intermittently ~ between his jet-setting job relocations, leaving us to sustain long distance companionship), we consciously decided not to move in together. The driving reason was to avoid upsetting our human creators.

Hey - what can I say? We’re recovering extreme parent pleasers.

Then suddenly, I’m 32, and had the choice to continue fostering romance across the miles…or do something about it. I mustered up a whole lotta courage to pack my bags, leave my job, leave my friends…all for a manfriend. Incidentally, I felt confident with the status of our union, more importantly — our future, and realized that sharing the day-in and day-out experience under one roof really couldn’t hurt.

Maybe even help.

Did I think, after a decade (!!) of dating, that I’d suddenly learn some newfound, scary insight about the guy? Hell no. But regardless, to jump from a long distance dynamic to being legal lovers seemed like a step was missing — and getting our feet wet at the same mailing address was the answer.

I’m not gonna lie though, I wanted a commitment before hopping in the Uhaul truck, with a carat or so as evidence. When he lived in Phoenix, a small town in Virginia, and then Atlanta, I consistently stood my ground with conviction, “Hear Ye, Hear Ye. I will not move for a man.” The sacrifice wasn’t worth it; if in fact we imploded…and I’d be left in a foreign zip code all alone.

So here I am we are, two months have passed, and everything has gone exactly as planned. Which, I’m highly aware, is an exception in life; nothing ever goes according to self-fulfilling agendas.

• The transition from two independent people — to somewhat dependent roommates sleeping in the same bed has basically been seamless.
• We adopted a dog, long over due; Gracie is the light of our lives who makes us laugh non-stop.
• Our careers are equally challenging but fulfilling.

Life is, chocolate milk sweet.

room + mates.

Someone once said that two halves make a whole. And when two halves move in together, it makes a whole lotta stuff. After thirty days, we miraculously managed to not kill each other.

Those lines are from one of my all-time favorite Sex & the City series episodes: “The Good Fight.”

Ironically, it’s airing on the Style network tonight. And how would I know that SATC is on? Because I retreated to the bedroom, also known as a sanctuary away from football {typically my max out is at 1.5 NFL games}. I’m convinced that is why living quarters almost always come in multiple levels…to have some peace and privacy.

In a nutshell, this is what has transpired in chronological order -

• Week 1: It felt like I was just visiting the manfriend, per usual. That at any given moment, I’d repack my duffle bag, give him a bear hug while saying good-bye with an extended kiss, then head back home down 95 south.
• Week 2-6: Life settled in.

I suppose, so far, the experience is on par with most domestic partners who are recently shacked up together. Somedays are smooth sailing, somedays are rocky, and somedays are perfectly, pleasantly normal.

Today I was quietly reflecting on the last 44 days of living with my Mr. Big, in between having what can only be considered a complete meltdown because my stuff won’t fit in our limited storage space. My makeshift closet on the 3rd floor, which he was thoughtful enough to invent using shower rods, can’t hold the weight of my clothes. Walking upstairs for the third time to witness my wardrobe all over the floor got the best of me. I cried*, went for a walk, and Christmas gift shopped away my frustrations. He saw the whole thing go down, and probably thought I was losing my mind.

*This is acceptable behavior under the code of Secret Single Behavior with no judgment from others. Not the case when cohabitating.

Whenever two people move in and become roommates, surely there are multiple variables that come into play which determines the proverbial household thermastat. But for our situation, a few more circumstances were thrown into the mix, most notably is the fact we’ve been existing in a long-distance relationship for the last year.

We lived in a facade — short weekend trips, soaking up every single minute with each other; mental, physical and emotional connections at an all time high. Those conditions are in no way true mirrors of real life.

So as we navigate what it’s like to live in the same {small} space, much less the same city, trying not to step on top of each other, annoy each other, and consciously treat each other with respect, despite having a hard day at the office or just flat-out being in a foul mood…we’re also getting used to simply seeing each other as often as we do. The good news is, in 10 years, he has never genuinely annoyed me.

On paper, it’d be easy to take the +1 for granted. Which is why I made a promise to myself that I flat-out won’t allow it. I will not slip into an unconscious routine, not appreciating coveted face-to-face time. My hope is that he will do the same.

In “The Good Fight” show, I love the banter between Carrie & her counterpart as they bicker about compromising closet space and complaining that there are too many half-used sticks of deodorant in the medicine cabinet. However, Big and I don’t fight. That’s one of the single greatest aspects of our dynamic — no screaming, no namecalling, no dirty mud slinging.

I suspect that with our new reality confined within four walls, there is now more room for error, and more room for bad days to occur.

But even the hardest day together will never be as bad as not seeing him at all.

Monkey love.

They say that life happens when you’re busy making plans. That life isn’t about the destination, but about the journey. That getting what you go after is success, but liking it while you are getting it is happiness.

Famous quotes of inspiration are plastered across every book shelf, fireplace mantel, and refrigerator magnet in my living quarters, yet, evidently I can’t seem to exercise the meaning beyond written words. I tend to get too caught up in my own neurosis instead of accepting that reality doesn’t always align with my master plan.

I know first hand how precious, and short, life can be. My dear friend Vivi was killed by a drunk driver in a car accident before she was legally able to rent a car. Countless others in my past have been taken earlier than conceivable.

And now, a tiny, precious, innocent baby has left this earth far too soon than any human can comprehend.

It feels like just yesterday, but in fact it was 12 months ago, when my friend since childhood, Christina, told me that she was pregnant. It would be her second son. At the time though, she didn’t know the sex of her child.

I wrote a blog about that conversation a few days later. While extraordinary joy for her blessing was beaming from my body, somehow — without fail — I managed to internalize how my own life and delinquent plan, wasn’t on schedule. How yet another friend was ‘lapping me’ in the game of life. First my friends got hitched, then created offspring, and then some more…all while I stood by watching their lives pass me by.

Despite how much I loathe even the mere thought of pity, in retrospect I threw a party-for-one in its honor. It’s humbling experiences like these that remind me how much more I have to learn. How much more I need to grow.

And now, I sit here tonight with a set of drenched cheeks and bloodshot eyes, after learning that her baby boy Benjamin passed away. He struggled with medical complications…even before leaving the womb. Last December, shortly after she shared with me that they were expecting in the spring — on the same doctor’s appointment when she learned that inside her belly was a little boy — she also learned that he wouldn’t be here for very long once joining us on earth.

My dear friend and her husband struggled to make the “right” decisions. To dig deep and muster up selflessness for the sake of his comfort. They leaned on one another and passed back a torch of strength that never once lost its spark. Not once. (click to see for yourself)

They held onto hope. They followed their hearts. And they enjoyed five months with Benjamin. Benjamin with big, beautiful blue eyes.

It’s hard to explain, but I’ve felt a very special kinship with him. In my heart. Maybe it was the innate compassion that is constantly simmering inside of me. Or maybe it is because his mother is one of the single most magnificent people I’ve ever known. Maybe it was both.

The day that I met him, and held him in my nook, I didn’t want to let him go. I didn’t know how much longer he’d hold on {to me, and to life}, so I stopped for a few moments…and literally breathed in his essence. He wrapped his little legs around me like a monkey. I consciously said to myself in silence, “I never want to forget this moment” so picked up my camera to capture the gift of his Being.

I love monkeys.

Nicholas, his older brother by a little more than two years, had monkey paraphernalia as his newborn bedroom theme. But because Benjamin was projected to not ever make it home from the hospital {and eventually defied all odds} his parents hadn’t even prepared a room for him.

My manfriend, Mr. Big, calls me a monkey in jest… I use my feet like another set of hands. Because of this decade-long association with the species, I’ve taken on a special liking to the animal. We too have a kinship.

With the primate on my mind, I poked around and learned that “Monkey Mind” is a Buddhist term meaning “unsettled; restless; confused.”

And that’s just it. That’s exactly what I am — when it comes to making plans. When it comes to accepting how my unscripted life has unfolded. I don’t have a husband. I haven’t given birth. If those treasured gifts are meant to be, they will be, when it’s meant to be. And in the meantime, I have the greatest gift of all; I’m alive.

Despite how hard it is to understand, I genuinely think that his short stay here was written — that it was meant to be. I’ll never know why, exactly, but his sweet smile and sparkling spirit only graced us for a brief period of time…before moving on to cultivate his soul’s journey.

I’ll miss that little monkey.

Benjamin’s life is not in vain. He left behind a legacy with many people, each message meaningful and translated differently.

My learning is to remember that a restless “monkey mind” does absolutely no good. I’ll remember, and treasure, from this day forward what Benjamin taught me.

Stop. Breathe. Embrace. Let go. Let God.

Closets are a girl’s best friend.

I’ve successfully completed three nights of living with Mr. Big.

• % of my belongings unpacked & tucked away into their new home / shelf / closet / drawer: 85%
• % of comprehension that I actually live in this space & am not just visiting my manfriend for a few days: 15%
• % of feeling comfortable in our cohabitation dynamic: 100%

Everything that I suspected would be enjoyable, transitioning from long distance dating to existing as romantic roommates, has morphed from a theory into reality.

• Waking up and falling asleep together
• Goofing off and laughing on the regular
• Having a meaningful conversation & looking each other in the eyes vs. interpreting voices over the phone

Not only am I happy with the early stages, and hopeful for the future, but I’m particularly pleased with his pre-op planning.

You see, our abode is ‘quaint’ which is another way of saying small. Perhaps said home built in the 1800’s would be perfect for a couple who doesn’t love to shop. Perhaps if the female didn’t have a shoe addiction and the male wasn’t a full blown metrosexual. Perhaps if the pair lived together much earlier in their relationship, circa year 5 or 6, then there would less stuff to stuff into nooks and crannies.

Before I ever arrived with a moving truck, Mr. Big plotted how my belongings would fit in {literally and conceptually}.

• He significantly downsized clothes & shoes (!!) by making a non-profit donation from his own wardrobe
• He sacrificed space in the coveted closet
• He created makeshift additional closet space by way of shower rods and has literally “given me” the entire 3rd floor

Yes. That’s right. Shower rods.

The guy manifested storage for my fashion obsession by being proactive, thinking outside of the shoebox, and utilizing creativity. I suddenly have six hanging racks for clothes and 18 bookshelves for footwear.

We all learned as children that sharing is caring. But in my book… sharing room in a closet goes above and beyond. If that isn’t an act of true, selfless love, I don’t know what is.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Exhibit C

Exhibit D

Exhibit E

Exhibit F

Ironically, when Carrie & Big finally decided to get married after 10 years of dating, he asked, “Should we get you a diamond?” She joked, “No. No. Just get me a really big closet.” Diamonds are undoubtedly a girl’s best friend; a significant space to seamlessly and easily access apparel is a close second.

                                                                    ~

Since our adorable rental rowhouse equipped with flower boxes is only a temporary stepping stone, until we establish our roots in a new city with fresh beginnings…I suspect that this inaugural version of a “custom-built closet” is just a small glimpse into the room he has carved out for me in his life.

Single and the City.

Not gonna lie. I’m having a little freak-out about the upcoming move [in t-minus six days]. Yes, I’m counting.

“Freak-out” is subjective and I don’t mean to overdramatize this…but the magnitude with regards to what is changing undoubtedly overwhelms me.

I knew a relocation transition was coming due to where we are in our long term, long distance courtship, but at the same time, it is one thing to process it as a concept but a whole other ordeal when it actually becomes reality.

Mr. Big has moved out of town, and state, four times during our relationship; it is practically second nature to him. But for me, I’ve been living in the same city for 14 years. My college career, entire twenties, and early thirties were born and raised here. Many of my closest girlfriends are a short drive away; we can meet for an emergency happy hour at a moment’s notice. There is comfort, memories, and history on every cobblestone street and uneven sidewalk throughout the area that I’ve called home for a long time.

Although I’ve had numerous roommates over the last decade, including the present moment, I’ve [intentionally] never lived with a signifcant other before. Instead, I’ve experienced the taking turns sleepover routine ~ then going back to my own space until the next visit.

I’m a little scared.

Scared that we won’t be peaceful, compatible living companions. That we will get on each other’s last nerve. That we might feel suffocated or claustrophobic. That the limited cohabitation closet space will interfere with our poetic shopaholic syndromes.

The truth is, I feel quite confident that none of those issues will happen based on how well we know each other & the sheer number of hours we’ve spent together, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a scoach of fear for the unknown possibilities.

I’ve been completely independent since earning an undergraduate degree. My bills, cars, clothes, rent, and food have been entirely paid for due to my own efforts. I come and go as I please. I watch what I want to watch on TV and am in a committed relationship with my DVR. I don’t have to ask for permission - for anything. I don’t check-in on purchases with anyone other than my checkbook.

Really this all comes down to letting go of my single self and shifting to a new dynamic [duo]. It’s a positive change and exactly where I wanted to be, sharing my life with the person I love.

But modification is never easy, particularly when it comes in an oversized package.

I’ll spend the next week packing up belongings, reminiscing on all of the wonderful moments shared in the River City, saying so long to my sidekicks who have been the greatest support system in my life, attempting to downsize stuff to share space with my future life partner.

And, all the while, preparing to close the book of my bachelorette days, and open the sequel: Shacked up and the [new] City.

Three’s company.

They say good things come in sets of three. Evidently, that is the case for me at the moment.

1. I’m moving to Baltimore!
2. I’m starting a new job!!
3. I’m going to live with Mr. Big for the first time in our relationship’s history!!!

Although we’ve been talking about our future for quite some time, somehow these tangible changes seem…well, sudden.

I helped him find and decide on the quaint row house in an absolutely adorable historic neighborhood a block away from the harbor, thoughtfully plotting out where all of my stilettos will be stored. I have mentally sized up my furniture inventory and assigned which pieces will come with me and which will go up for sale. I’ve answered many questions from friends and family about logistics and terms of condition to make the relocation. I have, for all intensive purposes, gone through the normal check list that comes with the territory shift.

But yet my head is spinning strictly based on the sheer amount of change; it’s a lot of moving parts at once.

1. Central Virginia has been my homebase for 14 years [even putting that in writing doesn’t compute in my brain].
2. My current gig is super slammed, and from what I gather, the new gig will be even more intense [there will be absolutely zero down time].
3. For the last five+ years, more than 50% of time, Big and I have been dating long distance [and now, we’ll be roommates].

To be perfectly honest [and this isn’t from being raised in a conservative Catholic household], I always hoped to be married, or at least engaged…prior to shacking up. But this opportunity to work for a world-renowned organization fell into my lap and I absolutely could not turn it down.

While I have my work cut out for the next 14 days to pack my bags & uproot my life, all the while attempting to gently register the sheer amount of alterations in an accelerated, acute timeline, this monumental milemarker makes my heart smile [the cheesy kind that magically produces dimples…even though you really don’t possess the cheek indents].

The last 14 months of reconciliation turned rewarding partnership with my manfriend has exceeded expectations ten times over.

We made it. We finally made it.

I’m looking forward to enjoying pockets of time together that most people might take for granted: rolling over at night and spooning before falling asleep; waking up to the person I love; talking about the day’s events face-to-face; eating dinner at our very own kitchen table; giving each other a hug…just because.

We’ll be a little family of two. But even that won’t last for long.

Good things come in three, and that’s where our soon-to-be adopted dog will fit in just perfectly.

When love prevails.

My former “office boyfriend” Phil introduced me to blogging many years ago. But it wasn’t just writing that we had in common, or the fact we were colleagues at a marketing agency…we loved talking about love.

The two of us quickly became each other’s opposite sex confidant outside of the office.

He was my self-proclaimed male voice of reason.

Subway was our trusted go-to spot for weekly pro bono therapy appointments. He thoughtfully listened as me and my neurosis navigated through Mr. Big shenanigans {Phil even refers to him as Big on & offline} and a few miscellaneous men inbetween our break-ups. I, in turn, heard what he had to say about ex-girlfriends, mini crushes, and ultimately the person who would become the love of his life, Lauren.

Here is their engagement story. He proposed to her yesterday, and I absolutely could not be happier for the guy.

In my entire life, I can honestly say there isn’t another man like Phil on the planet. He is hilarious, sincere, humble, smart, quirky, talented, down-to-earth, and introspective above and beyond most male species. On a few occasions early into our friendship, my gal pals would ask why we didn’t date; I never questioned for a moment if there could be something more.

Without a doubt, I knew we were destined to be great friends and play that special role in each other’s lives. Our goofy dynamic doesn’t even scratch the surface.

So to witness someone who is impossibly deserving of great love, finally find his match, is a real-life fairy tale come true.

To my good friend Charlotte, the eternal optimist, who always believes in love. - Carrie Bradshaw

Love is patient.

Every single one of us possesses an achilles’ heel. Evidently, mine is accepting that my grandoise master plan concocted in my subconscious hasn’t come to fruition.

The older and wiser I get, the more I realize and believe in the depth of my Being that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. That every single solitary part of my journey to date has a purpose; the good, bad and ugly.

Yet, even though I *know* this, sometimes, my silly ego with a poor memory forgets.

Like today, while on Facebook, I stumbled across professional photography of a couple {K & C} who recently gave birth to their first child. My computer mouse and I innocently scrolled through the delicious images and instantly got drunk on their love…which has expanded beyond just two individuals in a romantic relationship. Now, they know what love beyond reason is. They created a human life, together.

My mind took an unexpected detour and suddenly transitioned into a time machine; I am sitting at Mr. Big’s dining room table in or around 2005/06 {I told you my memory stinks}. Mr. Big and C are in the kitchen cooking, K and I are enjoying conversation over wine, waiting for our boyfriends to serve us their home cooked Valentine’s Day dinner. K is telling me about their plans to eventually move in together…and before long, the rest was history.

That basic story composition has been regurgitated dozens of times with other couples. It’s like watching the same movie, re-made over and over and over but with different actors/actresses. You know the beginning, middle and end. After a while, you wonder when you’ll be cast to play the lead part.

When I felt tears filling up in my eyes, partly because I’m so overjoyed for their joy, and partly because I have ‘future envy’ {why aren’t we there yet, or even half way there?} — once again, I gently remind myself:

Our journey had some detours. I hold onto hope that we’ll arrive ‘there’ too someday…

Wherever there is.

My story, my scripted plan laced in patience may still be in the editing room, but I don’t think I can hold on much longer to the table-for-one cliché.

A few weeks ago, Big and I hung out with another couple who had just celebrated their 6-year wedding anniversary. They know our entire history, and vice versa.

Me: I still can’t believe that she gave him an ultimatum to get married. I just couldn’t do it, not my style. Do you think he still would have proposed even if he didn’t have that declared cut-off date?

Big: Yes, he still would have proposed, maybe not when he did though.

Meanwhile, I’m reading and working on a review of the book, Blow Me. It’s authored by a smart, witty gal out of Los Angeles. Her literary work has been compared to Sex and the City…which had me at, Hello may I please have a copy? She is very active in the social media world and has a weekly column, Ask Lennie. I couldn’t help myself…so out of curiosity I emailed…and submitted a question.

I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that a fury of 20+ comments on her fan page plus another five on the web site were the result of such a controversial question.

How do you feel about women giving their man an ultimatum, like an engagement proposal deadline?

People vacillated between “absolutely not” to “hell to the yes.” I didn’t inquire because scripting a final proposition is something I’m considering, but because I truly find the dynamic fascinating. In my opinion, if your man doesn’t ask for your hand in marriage by {insert appropriate time based on your personal situation} then you either have an honest conversation about intentions, and/or you exit stage left.

As the brilliant Steve Jobs said, “You have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever.”

I trust that our time will come. I trust in love.