MaryB and the City

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.

I do[n’t].

A friend who I’ve known since my training bra days just hung up the phone with me. I happily served as a bridesmaid in her nuptial party a few short years ago [note: *happily* not just because it was the only wedding-issued dress uniform I’ve ever worn that needed zero over-priced alterations to a frock never donned again]. 

She is one of those people who just…glows, without even trying. No bronzer. No glitter. No effort. She organically radiates without any quantified effort.

Not just in the traditional beauty sense either; her spirit is sparkly. If I were to write God a letter and thank him for my most significant friends, she’d make the A List.

So it shreds my heart to hear that she’s going through a pretty sticky separation. Insert knife in chest. Do not resuscitate.

No one deserves selfless love more than her. And now, for whatever TBD reason that is a personal journey destined to make her rise above in the end, happily ever after is over before it ever began.

I remember back in high school, sitting at the kitchen table with a clunky cordless phone attached to my ear night after night…listening to multiple puberty-laden peers confiding, asking for advice, and leaning on me for support. My Mother told me I was taking on too much, that I didn’t need to be a 360-degree sounding board. She probably thought it was too much for me to handle. That I needed to leave some room for and nurture my own overbearing melodramatic teenage issues.

But that was never even an option. My gravestone could read, ”Her friends were her family.” It’s just that simple. The unspeakable pain that my sister-by-decision is experiencing breaks my hopeful heart.

Being a 31-year-old single, motherless gal, who has juggled a near 9-year-in-the-making relationship with my Mr. Big, is confusing. It’s even more confusing when friends, who you watched and stood by take monumental steps and reach major milemarkers in life, completely lap you.

Engagement —> Wedding —> Honeymoon   —> Kids —> Family Trips —> Split —> Divorce —> repeat.

While passing through the office halls recently, I learned that the President of my company [divorced and remarried] has a theory: Marriages should only entail a 7-year-contract. After picking my jaw up off the carpet and asking some clarifying questions, I learned that it goes like this — you agree legally to be bound together for 7 years, no more, no less. Then when the time comes, you mutually decide to either not renew and go your separate ways, or stay together and renew [at whatever multi-year increment the couple chooses].

Similar to a business…you work together, both bringing value to the table. When one stops stepping up or no longer provides ROI, the partnership does not continue.

No nasty warfare. No bankrupting lawsuits. No hard feelings. Just old-fashion agreements based on your word.

Although horrifically unromantic, I suppose I can see the logic.

When lawns appear greener over in the neighbors’ yard, it almost always is not. Especially during sad times like these… which remind me that in as much as my “developmentally delayed” relationship has dragged on for more than most might have faced, it isn’t any worse or better than those who committed to a person they didn’t truly know inside and out. We have faith that our partner will not quietly change behind the closed doors of their house & of their own mind.

All this time I’ve been so focused on preparing to trust someone with my world and say I do. Yet before those words have even left my lips in a stained glass window sanctuary, it has already become undeniably apparent that I don’t necessarily believe it means ’til death do us part.

The truth is, it’s ‘til someone dies a little inside the relationship, and ultimately decides their spouse isn’t a priority anymore.

He loves me, he loves me not.

They say things can change in the blink of an eye. And for my dear friend/perma side kick, life did just that in the form of retracted bling.

A mere 72 days elapsed from the day she got engaged with a magnificent piece of diamond-clad artwork strapped to her ring finger… to when it was indefinitely removed and given back to its original owner.

The proposal to spend the rest of her life with a man was cut short. The wedding will be no longer.

It has been 10 days since the nuptial planning was put to rest, and for as many questions that still loom in the air, just as many answers continue to surface in her heart.

Their getting-to-know-you courtship was just under a year old, which really didn’t phase either one of the participants who were simply looking for & found love. After you pass the threshold of thirty birthdays over a lifetime ~ knowing what you want is front & center, and the actual dating process doesn’t have to drag on.

Or at least, so we thought.

I’ve been through and witnessed a lot in my life — the good, bad and ugly. I also consider myself a pretty grounded individual who can see things for what they are, live without regrets, and believe that everything happens for a reason. But I have to be honest…I really didn’t see this one coming.

The bachelor was branded as, well, that guy. Everyone liked him. He was seemingly enamored with my BFF, as he should be as far as I was concerned. He was anxious to lock it down and shuffle along the aisle hand-in-hand. From the very beginning, he treated her the way girls dream and read about in fairy tale books. And personally, inspired me to think there are guys that exist out there who are both gentleman and genuine.

Just hours before the unscheduled break-up took place, we were chatting and what she shared with me shook me to my core. So much so, I actually developed a headache. Maybe it was sympathy pains. But nonetheless, it got inside me. 

“I used to feel lonely before… when I was single. Now, I’m engaged, and feel even lonelier.”

Then and there I knew how this story would end.

And suddenly, boom. The truth surfaced: Change of Heart. Something is missing. He doesn’t want to move forward. Call it a case of the jitters. And while you’re at it, call me jaded.

The great thing about this resilient single-again gal is that she can actually step back and laugh at the situation. Or as she likes to call it, is even better than a Lifetime movie. Now that is pretty amazing. She isn’t drowning in misery, putting a sharp blade to her wrist, or taking up booze as a hobby. Instead she is reflecting on all of the learnings taken from the relationship, realizes it apparently wasn’t meant to be, wishes her early retirement fiancé well, and is looking forward to where life will take her next.

I admire her grace and guts. I admire her hope and unbreakable happiness.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…I can’t believe we’re both here again. Mr. Big moved a few states away; her partner moved away from their pending marriage.

The beautiful part - even as this chapter closes - we still and will always have each other. Maybe a diamond isn’t forever after all, but a best friend is.

“Eventually all the pieces fall into place…until then, laugh at the confusion, live for the moment, and know that everything happens for a reason.”  Carrie Bradshaw

Phone a friend.

At the risk of sounding trite, I have a hunch that the Universe draws the last 30-something single-ones-still-standing-solo, together.

Tonight while catching up with my coveted DVR and enjoying Oprah’s last season which has been far from disappointing…a friend called. I looked at the cable box clock before answering and thought, “Hmm, 8:45 is a little late [pause to reflect on how ridiculous that sounds, and remember my age has brought severe early onset tiredness], I wonder if anything is wrong.”

The conversation went something like this.

Single Friend: So I’m driving home from a book club meeting and…

Me: Wait, what? You’re in a book club?

Single Friend: Haven’t been in 6 months, but it doesn’t matter - no judgment from the other members. Anyway, I had a moment and you were the first person who came to mind who would appreciate the story.

Me: [anxious and intrigued] Oh?

Single Friend: So all of these girls are laughing, having a good time, talking about the book when it occured to me — a few are pregnant, some already have kids, and every. single. one. is. married.

Me: [Laughs] Yes…

Single Friend: Two years ago, this wouldn’t have even dawned on me. But for some reason, it did tonight. They are dressed in business suits, have husbands with high-paying jobs, and wear huge rocks on their fingers. I show up in gym clothes.

Me: I get it, totally. I’ve had that moment many times, where you just stop - look around the table or room, and realize that you can’t relate to them on so many levels.

Single Friend: Right, exactly. The conversation would always come back around to their families, and I go home to my dogs. I just couldn’t even imagine right now, having to come home and take care of a baby. Is something wrong with me? Do I need to see a counselor [laughs]?

Me: Nope.

Single Friend: I’m happy…I really like my life. But there was just something about seeing everyone else living in such a different world than me, that made me think.

I’ve only known this friend for less than a year. We work together and among 80+ people in the organization, are the only two unmarried, childless female coworkers in the entire building. We regularly attend department-initiated baby showers and have had our fair share of sheet cake; pink, blue, pink, blue, pink, blue. While fellow mothers shout out descriptives of their thoughtful, hand-picked gifts and why specifically they’re the best bottles, her and I are focusing on how delicious the icing tastes.

We’ve formed a bond. Inside and outside of the business. While there are many points of difference in our daily interests, we definitely share that particular commonality. Actually, we even share the same name on our birth certificate.

As a rule - I truly believe that through every step and facet of our complicated lives on earth, people are brought into the picture for a purpose at particular moments in time. Usually to learn a lesson, or to make the lessons a little less painful. Her and I each come with our own set of amazing friends that pre-date our infant companionship; those people are there through thick and thin. But the truth is, they run a tight ship with busy schedules and have a much different set of priorities than us.

Simply put - she knows that at a quarter to 9 on a Wednesday night, I’m sitting on an oversized sofa by myself.

In our case, neither one of us throws pity parties, nor invite each other to attend any unforeseen ones. But it is in these brief moments of innocent inner banter, where it just helps to know that you can call someone who understands how you feel. Maybe it isn’t on a game show to help win a million dollar prize, but the comfort of knowing someone will pick up - and listen - is priceless.

A hot mess.

The Internet (and my mind) is fucking with me. I appear to be overheating.

Let me back up 24 hours.

Bullets Pictures of Mr. Ex are flying around from all sides of the screen through our mutual Facebook friends. Dodging them seems near impossible. Ever since I interacted with him in the flesh on multiple occasions so far this summer, it has occurred to me I definitely, definitely negated any kind of “steps forward” I had previously achieved over the first few months of separation. I’m back at ground zero…Which is also why I’m choosing to remove myself from continued communal interactions via river boating and BBQing hangouts; my raw heart can’t handle it. I’d be better off just skewering the broken pieces and adding them to the grill.

Next up, my colleague who is also single was recently talked into joining The Match.com (compliments of my own peer pressure) and before she could even blink, the Quarterback winked at her. That’s just awesome. Guess he isn’t taking my advice on resolving his trust issues with women before hitting the field again. It stung a little bit, but also validated my intuition to just move on.

I wish on The Match there was a Commenting box available — or better yet — a Reviewer’s section. Ya know, just like online stores have thru their web site for consumers. You can write up your personal experience of a product…its features, quality, durability, if the description on the package actually translates to real usage. That would be oh so helpful in online dating. In this case, I’d have to call QB’s bluff on “balancing work and personal life.”

Or like the Lawyer who I briefly dated last June & lied about his age. The guy just turned 40 but his profile page proclaims he is in his early 30’s.

Which leads me to my next subject — recycling. I recycle plastic, paper and aluminum products, but am making it my mission to not recycle men. Period.

The Lawyer is still on The Match and emailed me. Or should I say had the nerve to email me. Exhibit A: He took me to his beach house after knowing me for 3 weeks, then didn’t contact me again for another 2 weeks. Lame. And, now, he wants to know if I’d like to grab some sake with him (just like our first date). No thank you. His case is closed.

There was also yet another past bachelor who reached out yesterday — I formerly referred to him as The Artist. After several emails and a phone call, we were scheduled to meet in early December, but then Mr. Ex came back swinging into the picture. I was entirely too confused and overwhelmed to even fathom holding a conversation with a new chap at the time, so I gently canceled the date. I then later ran into The Artist in March and recognized him from pictures. I don’t think he is my type though so won’t pursue that avenue. And also because, as I said above, I really and truly want a fresh start.

Finally, after all the digital debauchery over the course of the day, last night I met up with two of my best girlfriends — one is visiting from out of town. She is married, a mom, and drives a mini van. I still don’t believe it, even seeing it in writing. The other gal is a fellow Match.com customer and cashed in on the cream of the crop. I’m devasted the guy doesn’t have a clone in the form of a brother or cousin; he’s amazing. They have proven to be a match indeed…and could actually be used in the company success story commercials.

I knew that both off-the-market ladies, who are almost as invested in my search to find lasting love as I am, would want to participate in culling down my growing list of potential manfriends. So I printed out about 15 dudes for them to review. One by one they scanned photos, “About Me” sections, hobbies, and interests. Each got put into two piles: Yes and Hell No.

The orchestrated ordeal was halfway hilarious, halfway hard. The married judge on our panel was picking apart elements such as restricted height (5’6”), the way the guy sat on the chair (legs wide open = cocky), posing on a motorcycle (or as she calls them, crotch rockets), if a female (not even knowing if they’re maybe related) was included in any photos, and on and on. I sat there defending myself, constantly sourcing the book “Mr. Good Enough” written by a lady over 40 who never got married because she was entirely too picky.

This time around, I’m genuinely trying hard to expand my normally strict criteria.

Which leads me to my next subject: Kids. I want kids, but I want them to come out of my uterus. Not only am I not ready nor wanting to be a Step Mother, but I just want *1* thing to be sacred and of my own. I’m open to meeting someone who is divorced (which by the way is 1:1 who contact me), but offspring baggage too…that’s tough. Both my sister & sister-in-law were ripping me a new one over the weekend, telling me I *have* to be more open about guys with children, otherwise I’m vastly limiting my ability to meet men.

God forbid I’m limited in any capacity.

So, I’m supposed to settle. I’m supposed to just totally throw my hands up and say screw it. Just give me anyone. I’m over 30 and maxing out here soon.

Really though — where do you draw the line on settling?

I need a cold shower… this 100+ degree heat is clearly getting to me.

Wives’ tale.

I was never that little girl who fantasized about her “when I grow up” wedding. Although I admittedly do have a tremendous amount of similarities to the adult character in 27 Dresses, there is one striking difference between us.

Young Jane pre-training bra days vividly envisioned her taller self being the lady in white, religiously cut out and scrapbooked wedding announcements from the Sunday newspaper, and had her entire day of nuptials plotted out…down to the table linens, before even the possibility of a diamond ever graced her fingers.

Whereas I could not tell you a single detail regarding my elusive Big Day, other than the row of women who will stand next to me in heels by an altar.

Can’t help but wonder if my lack of make-believe planning was somehow a premonition to what would come, or rather, not come. Maybe the Law of Attraction worked against me in this case.

Most gals, at some point or another in their lives, do drift off into a semi-conscious dream land full of veils, satin shoes, bouquets, and tulle. I even have some friends who took the imagination up [a few] notches.

One purchased her bridesmaids’ gifts and attended a wedding expo before her boyfriend proposed. Another tried on wedding dresses and designed her own engagement ring.

Those sorts of situations seem so foreign to me. Then again, they were in stable relationships and confident in their dual state of the unions. Part of me thinks I’ve never “gone there” because I didn’t want to jinx it. Another is because I wasn’t convinced enough to think that my long-term boyfriend would ever get down on his knees holding a precious metal in his hand. And also because I suppose I have always wanted to cherish and enjoy those marital moments when the time has actually come. Same goes for waiting to live with my partner-to-be until after we’re hitched – personally I’d prefer to not just roll over one day and be legally joined. Instead I truly want to experience and literally create a new life together after the reception is over.

Because I’ve worn 9 bridesmaid dresses and attended dozens of weddings over the last two decades, I’ve more or less become immune to the expensive party planning process.

With all of that said – it certainly took me off guard when I received a passionate text message from a girlfriend claiming she found “my dress.” You know – the dress. The same dress I haven’t cumulatively thought about for more than a whole 5 seconds in my entire lifetime. [Note: Those 5 seconds were when I decided a “Mermaid” style cut would look hideous on my very large gluteus maximus.]

A few back & forth SMS banters and it turns out she was chaperoning a cousin to find a Prom dress @ David’s Bridal. Although that store can tend to be pretty tragic, apparently they’ve stepped up their game and have some decent offerings on display.

As a background — this particular gal pal [who has already been walked down the aisle] happens to appreciate and feed my Sex & the City obsession. She swayed sales associates into letting her snag a gigantic Sarah Jessica Parker black and white banner from a retail store [Steve & Barry’s] after the actress stopped selling her clothing line, Bitten. She secured a knock-off version of the coveted key chain from S&TC’s first movie that reads in handwritten script, Love. Then when that one broke, she replaced it for me. The thoughtful list goes on and on. I love her for that.

So her frantic message explained to me that with every cell in her body, she simply *knew* that this piece of fancy cloth priced around $1500 was to be my final frock worn under my maiden name. Partly because it very much exudes something that Carrie would have worn, and partly because she knows my personal style and that I’d never wear something über traditional.

The dress in a static still frame didn’t necessarily scream at me per se…but I’ll admit that it spoke to me. I also realize that nothing on film ever totally translates from the real deal and according to her, the piece of layered artwork had my name written all over it.

Regardless, no matter how magnificent any off-the-rack princess gown appears, and no matter if my own initials were embroidered in the seams, I just couldn’t bring myself to purchase the dress, let alone go to a fitting. Even if it were just for fun.

Call me superstitious. Or just call me mindfully single.

Love & war.

It’s been exactly two months since my faux fairy tale ended with Mr. Ex. And just as predicted, I’ve faithfully and diligently maneuvered my way through the grieving steps. Most of which was stemmed in anger.

Passer-bys tell me I’ve handled *it* well. Every now & again I’ll get asked how I’m coping. For the most part, I pretty much shut off from feeling – which I apparently have an exceptional talent for. Then recently, as the unadulterated rage has subsided, now the sense of loss is setting in.

But nonetheless, my belief that things happen for a reason and life is manifesting exactly as it is meant to, gets me through any heartbreak hiccups.

What has been top of mind, this week in particular, is marriage. And, their subsequent endings.

 With 9 bridesmaid dresses under my belt, and countless RSVP-for-1 cards mailed over the last decade, verbal vows I once witnessed are slowly but surely being retracted.

 The span of circumstances range from “it’s about to get ugly up in here” to multiple year-long separations, to affairs, to cut-throat divorces. Siblings, best friends, college buddies, friends-of-friends, and their counterparts have unfortunately bit the nuptial bullet.

While the messy mud slinging plays out before my eyes, I’m simultaneously observing the single ladies sorority close its chapter — the members are on the brink of being made into brides. Literally there is less than one handful left in my local area code that does not sport an insured, 2 month’s salary rock on their left hand…yet each one is on the fast track to walking the plank down the aisle.

That reality alone leaves me jilted. Laughing at the irony, but still jilted.

Could I really be the very last one? Is my frog lost? Does he refuse to pull over and ask for directions?

But before I all but give up complete hope that a prince charming suitable, fertile gentleman is out there, I’m actually less anxious than ever before to do the legally bound deed. The portrayal and image of an indefinite union with a manfriend turned manpartner is no longer polished & shiny like we’ve been lead to believe. And by we — I mean the society of pre-jilted females.

Even my gal pals who are in seemingly sustained marriages, upward of eight years, candidly break down the day-to-day trials of life in the crowded queen size bed lane. The couples who from afar seem to roll around on the other side in fluorescent green grass, are actually splashing around in puddles of mud, too. But the difference is, when the dirt dries up, they shower off…call it a day…and start over fresh in the morning. And sadly, these people are actually the exception.

I find myself at a very confusing crossroads right now. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Is it better to be single than coupled-up and unhappy? Is it time to stop believing that when and if I do speak vows before God, that they may come with caveats?

Or is it time to finally just be….okay? And by okay — I mean…at peace with being alone.

Blades of bling.

Crème de la crème divas are given red carpet “best dressed” awards. Fashion faux pas gowns are abrasively handed “what not to wear” titles.

Actors and actresses’ fancy mantels and marble bookcases don accolades and shiny statues.

Employee of the Month names are engraved on plaques across Corporate America.

It occurred to me recently that I too deserve some kind of recognition for my own impressive achievement.

Closest Female to Acquiring a Diamond Ring, twice.

Walk with me down memory lane for a minute.

During college, I dated a fellow fraternity chap. Great guy, incredible guy in fact. We were on the fast track to marriage post-Bachelor’s degree diploma. We co-hosted a celebration dinner with both families to honor our mutually esteemed $20,000 pieces of paper & even tackled the all-important meeting of the parents to boot.

Shortly thereafter I had what some call a Quarter Life Crisis. It went something like this: break-up with long-term boyfriend, pierce an unlikely body part, decide to change career paths. That all happened in about 30 days after throwing my tassel-clad hat in the air.

Over the course of that summer, multiple acquaintances congratulated me on the engagement. Finally by the third occurrence I had to figure out what the hell was going on. Did I miss the memo?

I called former fling to understand.

“Well, um, I had bought you a ring…and told a few people I’d be proposing. They must not have heard things ended between us.”

Pretty sure I crawled into a deep dark hole at that point. Apparently the coveted Tiffany setting was purchased, along with a sparkly diamond. I even think he held onto it for another year, in case we got back together. *That* broke my heart.

Today he is married, has a stork on the way, and I couldn’t be happier for him. Everything works out exactly as it should, right?

Next I date a dude for the better part of my 20’s. The infamous Mr. Ex & I give it one final, ol’ college try in our early 30’s, to no avail.

Here is a skeleton from my cupid’s closet: throughout the entirety of our relationship, my mind literally wouldn’t allow me to visualize not only him getting down on his knee, but also didn’t picture him standing across the matrimony aisle from me.

It was the most bizarre mental condition. Like permanent brain freeze.

I’m not an M.D., but am confident that Freud would say a subconscious mechanism was protecting me from being disappointed. “That will never happen, so don’t even bother fantasizing lady.”

So you can imagine my utter shock, border-line cardiac arrest, when learning from multiple people that my beloved Mr. Ex was ring shopping during our final soiree.

I know what you’re thinking. Why would he have not only jumped through all the hoops and circus shows…but even opened a line of substantial credit, to just throw it all way for a one [or more] night stand?

No fucking clue.

Another off-the-record tidbit that only me, myself and I know: One day over the winter, while looking for some kind of office supply item on Mr. Ex’s computer desk, smack dab on top of a mile-high mail stack was an unopened envelope with a jewelry store brand name as the sender. It appeared to either be a statement, invoice, or credit card from the company. After picking my jaw up off the carpet, I tucked that unexpected insight into my back pocket and was surprisingly pleased to know that our verbal discussions of finally taking the next step were seemingly on track.

Since the breakup, I’ve gotten credible sources of confirmation that he did in fact have the carat wheels in motion, whether it was on any level [ring picked, and/or acquired, and/or purchased] but finding that out for sure just about kicked my fragile ass.

That leap for him, for us, was so unbelievably pivotal, and elusive.

It makes the whole sticky situation even more confusing. While he was out researching color and clarity, I’m left with one massive cut. How could someone be thinking of investing a lot of money to spend a lot of years with me…for what?

Like I always say though…everything happens for a reason. Ugh, now even I’m sick of hearing that expression. The grass isn’t necessarily always greener on the other side, true. But blades of bling are simply stunning and losing something you never had is even sadder.

So. If you’ve been counting the 4 C’s — not one, but two diamonds had my name on it, and I never even got to introduce myself.

Damn.

Happily ever after.

According to a new study done at the Geneva School of Business, the likelihood of success in a marriage can actually be predicted with mathematical precision. Researchers claim to have cracked the formula for wedded bliss: The woman should be five years younger than the man, from the same background, and 27 percent more intelligent. I’m assuming that 27 percent is the difference between a bachelor’s and a master’s degree?

Other results of the study showed that married couples are happiest 11 months and eight days after tying the knot, feel most comfortable with each other at just under three years, and have their best sex life after two years and four months. Also, the husband helping with household work peaks at three years, weekend getaways drop off after three years and four months, and couples who remain faithful tend to have at least 24 minutes of heart-to-heart convo each day and never go to bed angry. -TheFrisky.com