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.

Love is love.

I might have been a gay man in my past life.

Maybe that isn’t necessarily true, and I don’t have any proof per se, but my affinity for homosexual guys is progressively edging off the charts. Even my manfriend has started to pick up on the blatant sexual orientation reverse discrimination.

Me: “I like that guy.”

Mr. Big: “Who, our waiter?”

Me: “Yeah, he’s really polite and helpful. I also like his retro Adidas shoes. And, he’s fabulously gay.”

Mr. Big: (cue shaking head followed by laughing at my unapologetic silliness)

Honestly though, in my experience, the majority of this well-dressed population seem to comprise the best heterosexual male aspects (easy on the eyes, generally laid back, don’t seem to hold grudges or inflict drama the way stereotypical females are capable of), but also simultaneously manifest the feminine qualities that I adore and treasure as a straight lady (strong communicators, discuss pop culture like an auctioneer rattles off antiques at a bidding event, admire fashion as an art form, and would much rather watch *anything* on E! Television than spend hours on the La-Z Boy recliner regurgitating SportsCenter highlights) ~ love.

This last year I finally decided to stop fighting my standard-issue Catholic-raised guilt and admit that I do believe we reincarnate through multiple lives; energy never dies and we have entirely too much to learn in a mere one-time-only 70-90 years. Our indefinite life force is magnificent and beyond incredible to understand while on earth.

Speaking of souls, I’ve also had countless messages from spirits who have crossed over, but I’ll have to save that doozy for another blog post.

About 10 years before granting myself permission to own personal beliefs that negate organized religion fed to me as a child, I decided that I have absolutely no place to judge who someone loves. Love is love. Period.

                                                                   —

Last month while sitting at my desk, the phone rang at work. It was a sales call. Usually these are annoying and I can’t get the person off the phone quick enough. But this time was different. Much different.

It was David, a producer from the Dougall Fraser radio show. Until then, I hadn’t heard of the program or the host for that matter, but would soon become very familiar. Now I consider myself a loyal, devoted fan.

The gentleman explained that he is a big supporter of my company’s products, especially a top-selling headcollar for dogs, and wanted to know if we’d be interested in sponsoring their nationally syndicated show…put on by none other than a gay psychic.

He had me at hello. And don’t think I didn’t notice that the word ‘chic’ is in the job title.

Since the pet products manufacturer typically does not participate in traditional advertising, I knew the opportunity wouldn’t pan out, but figured a giveaway contest could be a fun twist.

Next thing I knew we were talking well beyond business and trickled into personal matters including my blog, interest in clairvoyants, devotion to Sex and the City, and our mutual respect of MAC make-up (he used to be a make-up artist for the brand ~ love).

Several business-drenched-in-personal-conference-calls later he asked me out of the blue, “Have you ever thought about writing a book?” I explained while wearing an XL grin behind the phone mic, “Actually, yes, I’m writing one now!”

“I’m not sure if I already told you this, but Dougall is my partner, we’re married. He wrote a book. I’d be happy to introduce you to him, and set up a call so you can ask him questions on his process and how he got published. I’ll send you a copy if you’d like.”

A few days later, the book arrived in my mailbox and I couldn’t read it fast enough. But You Knew That Already, What a Psychic Can Teach You About Life was a treat to read and easy to finish. I even did 90 minutes of consecutive cardio at the gym (unheard of) because I didn’t want to put the piece down.

At the risk of sounding like a crazy person who is off their meds, I felt like his friend by the last page. Ok that’s a lie…by the first few chapters. I guess that is a testament not only to what a great storyteller he is, but also what a fun personality Dougall emanates. Ok that’s not the whole truth either…I also related to his issues with weight, putting Ms. Winfrey on The Highest Pedestal Possible, and the effortless ability to show his vulnerability – front and center.

Once the book was over, I still wanted more Dougall inspiration in my life. So I popped in earphones and listened to at least seven recorded radio shows archived on his web site, back to back. I decided to knock out a bunch of busy work that required little concentration to justify said multi-tasking and updated an Excel sheet of media contacts for hours, all while listening to his energetic voice interview guests in the medium industry, chat about David and Dougall’s adorable dog Bernie, and recap reality show drama.

‘Queer Guy with a Third Eye’ is his tag line. He can see people’s auras and is teaching a seminar called ‘Color is my Prozac.’ How great is that? ~ love.

                                                                   —

David helped schedule a time to speak with my new self-proclaimed BFF psychic/author/radio host/life coach. While at an out-of-town business conference, I typed up questions to get my thoughts together and as 4:30 p.m. Eastern approached, I started to feel a bit nervous, because he’s – well – famous. [Note: Famous is subjective depending on who you ask… I realize this, but the guy was booked on the Oprah Show for God’s sake, and appeared several times on BRAVO’s Real Housewives to boot]. However the second I heard his voice on the other end of the line, all of the butterflies went away, because he spoke to me as if we were already friends.

I literally lost count of how many times Dougall said throughout the conversation, “I know so-and-so at X publishing house (or agent); I’d be happy to introduce you to her.”

“It’s who you know,” he explained.

I’ve heard and even used this line before; it’s how I’ve landed 90% of my jobs to date. But the selflessness and generosity he conveyed to a near complete stranger [who secretly wishes they were BFF’s] was unexpected. He also mentioned in a very casual, matter-of-fact manner that he is grateful for how many people helped him along the way to building his career as well as getting published…and is happy to help others (like moi) do the same. Call it being nice, or call it karma ~ love.

I may or may not have done a few twirls and hops in my hotel room after chatting for an hour.

                                                                   —

The first time David and I spoke, on what should have just been another sales pitch 60 second call, I told him that this all “feels like serendipity.” We’ve been swapping social media strategies, dishing on my life with Mr. Big, and genuinely forming a bi-coastal friendship. Meanwhile I feel an undeniable connection to a warm, sensitive, spiritual, intuitive, and absolutely hilarious animated man out of the closet, David’s partner.

Dougall shared invaluable insight and sentiments with me, and I will always be thankful. There is no doubt in my being that I was meant to cross paths with him for a purpose beyond a glorified albeit sincere gay man crush.

Despite all of the learnings and dream fulfillment networking I’ve piled up in hopes of becoming a published author, the most moving takeaway from this entire experience thus far, is getting a small glimpse of the affection they have for one another.

When I opened the hardcover for the first time and read his short and simple dedication, “For David, for everything” – I melted in my chair.

David had me at hello. Dougall had me from the very first page.

Case in point. When they met face-to-face for the very first time…

Page 236: “His head tilted to the side as he gave me a shy smile. As we made eye contact, these words passed through my mind: I love you.”

~love, is love

Runaway bride.

I don’t have a clue how many weddings I’ve attended between 1986 (my Mom’s youngest sister/Aunt Mary’s nuptials) through the present. But I do know I’m officially burnt out of the over-produced escapades, and the nine bridesmaid experiences under my belt probably hasn’t helped either.

To the point where I recently even had a temporary moment of preemptively waving the white flag.

Me: So, I know what you’re going to say, but how about when we’re ready to get married, we elope?

Big: You’re kidding, right?’

Me: No. Hear me out. So we’ve both been to a ton of weddings…been there, seen that. Our roller coaster history will probably have many skeptics sitting in the pews. Our families won’t be subsidizing the expenses. Receptions are very costly. Should I continue?

Big: My Mother would have a heart attack if she didn’t see me get married.

That’s fair. As would my collective family.

But when I came across this gorgeous overview of a 1920’s inspired wedding, my belief system was renewed. I love the theme, the vibe, the story through details. I love that the bridesmaids are not only *not* matching, but they’re not even wearing bridesmaids dresses period. I love jazz. I love the party favors of distilled liquor. I love the old camera. I love the b&w photo booths for guests. I love the headbands & feathers. I love every last glamorous element.

So maybe there is hope for me, after all…to not be a runaway bride.

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.

Steak, it’s not just for dinner.

Marriage has gotten a bad rap for the better part of my adult years. Particularly in the Sex Ed dept.

Without fail, every single comedy club I go to, the wise guy on stage makes a joke about how ever since he legally sealed the deal, receiving head is a thing of the past.

Politicians and actors, evidently, can’t keep their genital under wraps outside of their own homes. Those symbols of a heartfelt promise go undetected.

When I’m privy to conversations around husbands, be it Mr. Big’s buddies or hearing random dudes at a bar, time and time again, negativity oozes from every corner.

Just last weekend I was with my gal pal at our favorite Cuban restaurant, enjoying some delightful conversation over a cocktail, when I overheard three men chatting it up directly behind me.

                “I love my wife, I do. Don’t get me wrong. But, I couldn’t even tell you how many times we’ve had sex since getting married.”

On cue I immediately rolled my eyes, and thought, “Oh boy. Here we go again…complaining that the wife doesn’t give it up. Film at 11.”

But then he continued, and threw a killer curve ball.

                “The truth is, I’ve gotten lazy. It’s just — I can have it anytime I want it. And after a while, the appeal is lost. Even eating steak everyday can get old.”

For the next five minutes I sat there starring forward with my jaw dropped in complete disbelief.

What an asshole.

Because, here’s a news flash: That’s what marriage is. You commit yourself to one person for the rest of your life. Maybe he missed the memo.

Although I’ve heard this theoretically questioned on a few occasions, it never once resonated with me personally as a real possibility: Maybe men and women aren’t meant to be exclusive in a monogamous relationship for an entire lifetime. Maybe biologically, we aren’t designed that way. Maybe marriage ‘til death do us part is manmade, and truly is not a natural attribute for testosterone-laced, sex-driven, foaming at the mouth males.

This is how low my hopes were taken. Apparently hearing this raw remark was the last straw that pushed me over the hopeless romantic edge. Perhaps assuming that a husband can practice fidelity indefinitely is not realistic. To assume that basic science, blood-pumping organs, and hormones can be overcome by will power, sound decision making skills, and an intangible desire to stay faithful…maybe isn’t realistic.

So I did what any single 30-something girl who wants to cross over to their territory, but is increasingly nervous about all of the scary realities unfolding before me; I surveyed a few of my closest hitched girlfriends to get their take and talk me off the ledge.

Besides being mortified about said douche bag’s disgusting comment, all of them suggested that I shouldn’t become jaded by others’ complaints. That every marriage is different, and unfortunately, some people only talk when they have something to bitch about and don’t share all the wonderful aspects of their committed relationships.

They went on to tell me sentiments about their husbands that practically sounded like they came out of a Nicholas Sparks script. “I love him more today than the day we got married.” “We’re better together.” “Our sex life hasn’t changed much since getting married. Maybe it isn’t as much of a priority as it once was, but we’re both fulfilled in that arena.”

While I never thought I’d be one of the last single girls standing among my peers and extended family, it continues to become more and more clear to me that the benefit of this position is gaining incredible insight into what makes a marriage work.

Ladies and gentleman, I don’t know much, but this much I know about the sacred union:

A healthy sex life gives you endorphins that make you feel happy. Marriage isn’t easy, in fact, it’s really, really hard. Don’t give your spouse your ‘leftovers’ at the end of the day. Never stop trying. Being friends is invaluable. Be honest to one another. Listen when they’re talking — no really, listen. And last but not least, communicate openly and respectfully; it is the glue that holds two partners together.

I’ll keep the faith that my future marriage doesn’t have to live in the shadows of my whining predecessors, that a lasting institution can maintain an allegiance of fidelity to one another, and that as long as you take the time to marinate each others’ needs on a daily basis, steak could be served and enjoyed morning, noon and night.

Fish in the sea.

The 2010 US census data released today shows some new trends in the gender age gap: notably, that more boys than girls are being born and men are living longer than they have in the past. Typically there are more women than men age 35 and older, with men dying early from accidents, homicide, alcohol, smoking, etc.

Then once we hit 85 there are twice as many women as men — nursing home dating must get cutthroat! But the gap is narrowing, with 21 percent more men over 65 now than a decade ago, double the percent growth rate for women in the same age group. And the overall male to female ratio has jumped from 96.3 in 2000 to 96.7 today, the biggest rebound for men since 1910.

Source: tressugar.com

Mr. Madden.

So tonight I was out with my Mr. Big…in ATL, just having fun @ the prestigious St. Regis hotel.

He went inside to find a light, after I found an abandoned pack of Marlboro Lights. I spotted a man in a tuxedo, sitting by himself.

Seeing as though I’m not shy, I figured I’d bypass Mr. Big before he returned and asked the gentleman if he had a light. Chances were strong, considering he was smoking a cigar.

Fast-forward 2 hours later. Turns out he is the President of Steve Madden, in town from New York. His daughter got married earlier in the day.

Of course.

Of course of all the men, in all of Atlanta, I walked up to a person who oversees stilettos, for a living.

Of course I raised my heel to him, after asking his profession, and showcased the BCBG label, in all my pedicured, hardware glory. And, of course he knew the BCBG designer, his pal, by name.

The very nice guy proceeded to give Big & I marriage advice (admittedly, after I asked for it). He is divorced. The man had been in a union for 20 years, then apparently his (ex) wife “checked out” from their union. Currently, he has been dating a gal for 10 years, and (while she does), he does not want to get married again.

I point blank asked him: Do you not want to get married again because you’re jaded?

He said: Yes.

It was interesting to watch the 59-year-old give my 32-year-old manfriend advice. While the wise man was very honest and seemingly unbiased, I could feel Mr. Big hesitate from the entire premise of ‘marriage.’

Like every conversation we’ve both digested regarding legally committing yourself to another human being, it seems as though Big has been brainwashed that women “CHANGE” once they take vows.

Or maybe it’s me. Maybe he isn’t brainwashed. Maybe I’m that paranoid, that he is brainwashed, because he’s been hearing horrible stories for years…of how wives morph into a masked version of themselves, post-ring.

Regardless, I get it. I DO. Because frankly, a lot of women do. They think once they get married, the guy will change to the fantasy character she has developed in her head. But once she realizes he is who he is, the woman stops ‘trying’ and/or invests all of her attention into their children and/or stops having sex, and on, and on.

Big says he logically realizes that it isn’t that black & white. That every woman is different.

I sat there, listening, observing, nodding….and giving my 2 cents when appropriate. Chiming in that “I’m from a big family, and have seen marriages and divorces,” and “I understand that what you marry is pretty much IT. You can’t expect differently.”

Mr. Madden looked at Big and said, “Buddy, I have to be honest. I thinks she really does get it.”

One day, I have to believe, that the stigma of women fundamentally becoming different people will not be something that Big is fearful of when it comes to me ~ and we can just live our lives together.

What I do know for sure is that this is me. I am who I am, and am not changing. 

Except, of course, my love for high heels.

Take a knee.

Themes. They’re everywhere. Consistently present. Each night as I go to sleep, the last 18 hours can easily and always be categorized into a specific genre; Mystery, Suspense, Sci Fi, Silent, Drama, Adventure, Romantic Comedy, Action.

However the last two weeks have been most notably tagged #Fantasy.

I’m an observer. People watching is a delicious past time. Particularly on the world wide web of social networking. Facebook is such a funny concept too — we ‘friend’ each other and passively keep tabs on daily happenings — collectively celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, job promotions, births, successful potty training, and weight loss/fitness accomplishments. But there is one epic, and I don’t use that word lightly, breaking news feed CNN-ticker worthy critical broadcast that by far takes the cake for responses: The Engagement.

Because I am privy to an updated inventory of every person, all 527 in my database, and their current state-of-the-union relationship status…I’m well aware how many of my immediate female peers are Single. There are were about eight of us left. And as of late, five of them crossed over who are now sporting shiny, expensive facets on their fingers.

Then, all of the tabloid-type TV shows started rattling off celebrities who had exchanged engagement experiences over the holidays, too. After losing count among my personal circle and famous folks, it seemed as though an unusually high amount of promises had taken place in a very short window. Was there in fact that many jewels going around, or was the bystander role from the sidelines causing me to be a bit melodramatic? Luckily one of my fave web sites posted article after article about the Fiancé/Fiancée announcements, assuring me I’m not making stuff up in the neurotic section of my head.

Christmas came and went. Then New Years came and went. And I couldn’t help but wonder what those women were feeling while going into 2011 with a monumental, life-changing commitment. Did they previously have “the talk” with their significant other? Had they looked at rings together? Was it a total surprise? How many minutes lapsed between ”Will you marry me?” and excitedly updating their relationship status? Did the road ahead feel scary, or like they’re headed to Disney World?

When Mr. Big and I reconnected about six months ago, I honestly didn’t know whether it was possible for me to ever completely trust him, wholeheartedly. I walked into a very vulnerable arena — putting myself out there again to give us one more shot — acknowledging that I could ultimately have to call it quits because there was simply too much water under the broken bridge. Moreover, I was extraordinarily skeptical…not knowing if it was even possible.

But it happened. I trust him.

Even saying those words outloud and expressing them in writing doesn’t seem real. For years and years during our former courtship, there was always an uneasiness that persisted inside of me. An unexplainable anxiety that fermented over time. And while there weren’t any tangible examples to claim my lack of total faith in his loyalty to me, still, the toxicity levels remained high.

Six months ago, I made a pact with myself: I will not walk down an aisle, greeted by Mr. Big at the end, if I cannot look in the mirror first and claim that I trust him. In the past, I literally couldn’t visualize a proposal out of his mouth, let alone exchanging vows. My mind wouldn’t allow me to enter a #Fantasy; it was a subconscious safety zone to not ‘go there.’

And now, I can finally see it. Not only do I feel a perpetual calmness radiate inside me, one I’ve never known before when it comes to feeling confidence in the person I’ve invested more energy into than any other aspect of my 31 years, yet also find it equally interesting that it’s no longer just about The Engagement. Sure the ring, the dress, flowers and flatware is bound to be fabulous.

But it’s about what comes after the first dance that really has me reveling.

“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”

— Ernest Hemingway

Hands of time.

I came home for Christmas. Technically it isn’t home though. My parents moved out of where I grew-up about five years ago to begin their retirement. Their new residence is 30 minutes away from the overcrowded, suburban city where I grew up til leaving for college and never looked back. In the beginning, the metaphorical separation hurt my heart. My Mother even made me take all of the trinkets, stuffed animals and yearbooks; there would no longer be a bedroom to call my own.

But as each year passes with countless visits and holidays celebrated in the cozy, professionally decorated abode, it no longer feels quite as threatening to my coveted childhood memories.

Every single time I return to the stomping grounds of my past, without fail I visit with a friend. No matter what, I make the time and the intention known that I’d like to see that particular person, taking turns among about ½ dozen lifelong friends each trip. And every time it is another reminder what a different script I lead than the majority of my peers. Today, for example, the small-stature partner-in-crime from our Catholic, private high school heydays stopped over with her 15-month-old son. Our most recent encounter was the Thanksgiving before last, making her son a mere 2 months old at the time.

She is that friend who can genuinely be placed in the we-don’t-have-to-talk-regularly-but-pick-up-right-where-we-left-off category. While I was mesmerized by the toddler’s pale, chubby, soft skin…and instinctively situating myself between him and every single sharp edge within reach of his newly discovered ability to waddle [the thought of a tiny, frail skull crashing down on a coffee table scares the hell out of me], my sweet spoken friend poignantly tells me while sitting Indian-style on the hardwood floor, about 20 minutes into our banter, “So, I’m pregnant.”

The first thoughts that run through my veins are joy. Untainted, blissful joy. Since we don’t talk consistently, I don’t know the ins and outs of her marriage. But from what I can tell, theirs seems to be solid. Come to think of it…I honestly don’t know behind-the-scene’s scoop of my regularly scheduled married comrades, either. When we’re single and co-navigating relationships, detailed information-sharing knows no bounds. But apparently once you are legally bound, those kind of inner circle secrets dwindle.

I digress. So I’m super thrilled to learn about this life-changing news. We eventually move onto other conversational subjects, after covering the basics [how far along, when is the due date, how did hubby take the news, and the like]. As I witnessed her caring for the cutie pie offspring smiling and cackeling, while another cutie pie nugget quietly grows inside her belly, I couldn’t help but think, “She’s lapping me.” Not in a negative sense, per se, but a factual observation.

That’s what happens. First they get hitched, then they get pregnant, then they get pregnant - again.

Mr. Big decided to take a break in travel and didn’t make the 450 mile trek back North for this annual holiday, so his colleague graciously extended a dinner invitation into their home for the festive feast. Big randomly texted me about an hour into his arrival something so sweet and equally surreal, I literally stared at it for a few minutes, digesting the unexpected dessert.

“He has an adorable baby girl. This Christmas makes me think of what ours will be like with our family one day.”

Enter: Our future.

For the first time ever, it finally feels like Big is there. We’re (both) currently at an intangible place of witnessing the workings of others around us building their futures together. And our sights are set to press Play.

The last 48-hours have been spent non-stop with family members and their little ones in my parents’ downsized house. And while I’m typically not claustrophobic - I really needed to breakaway for a bit and escape into a chic lit book. Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin is my homework, if you will, to help wrap my wordsmith mind around fiction…with the intention of composing one myself someday. My imagination was so far removed from reality, a good 2/3 of the way through, when I stopped to notice my Mother standing in front of a Grandfather wall clock in the foyer. She took an old fashion-looking key, inserted it into the face, and turned and turned and turned it.

“Mom, I didn’t know you literally had to wind the clock for it to work.”

She explained how it must be manually cranked, how the chimes are turned off so all of the relatives can sleep through the night and not be disturbed, and then noted that for some reason, “the clock is fast.” So she simply took her finger, placed it on the minute hand, and moved it backwards to where it should be.

I sat there with my feet up on the couch and book clenched to my chest, thinking, “If only life were that easy.” Move the proverbial Clock of Life backward, or forward, as you see fit.

I’ve come to a more peaceful place as far as my own clock goes. Sure there are times where I can taste a hint of envy on my palate from those that lap me. Or worry that my children will be much younger than their cousins. Or that my sister, 12-years my senior, will not wear a bridesmaid dress in her mid-forties. Or that my Dad who recently had a health scare and for the first time has shown significant visible signs of aging on his face, may not be able to keep up with the grandchildren I provide while he is well into his seventies.

But ultimately, although my tick tock may be beating at a different, slower pace than I dreamt about while growing up back on Four Oaks Lane, I’m comforted to know that the saying really is true: [at least] Time flies when you’re having fun.