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.
First comes love.
Mother’s Day.
They don’t deserve an annual celebratory holiday. They deserve one per week.
Oprah has always said she thinks the job of a Mother is the hardest, hands down, in all careers across the board. I couldn’t agree more. It doesn’t provide a paycheck. It often receives little gratitude. The workday never ends.
But I imagine the intangible benefits far outweigh the sacrifices such as sleep, headaches, and financial burdens.
I imagine creating a human being together with someone you love & having it grow inside you must be the most amazing, surreal experience. I imagine observing your very own Mini-Me take their first breath, first step, and crack their first smile must literally take your own breath away. I imagine hearing their first words, their first giggle, and feeling their first reciprocated embrace must make you melt inside.
At the cusp of turning 31, I can finally imagine being a Mother.
Today I swallowed a pretty pivotal moment in passing — one of those that you don’t expect which makes it all the more memorable. You’re just going about your day, doing something as mundane as sitting at a stoplight behind the wheel one block away from home, when you look to your left and suddenly feel like you’re peeking through a peep hole of someone else’s life. Something so extraordinarily special that you can’t help but smile.
Just a few buildings down from my apartment building is an ice cream shop. Now that the weather is warmer, the activity generated through their doors has recently skyrocketed. The sunlight shined on a woman who calmly sat on a park bench facing the city street while clutching a baby on her lap and a toddler immediately to her right. She was spoon-feeding the munchkin ice cream out of a cup while the other was self-sufficient licking his own scoops of frozen sugar. I gazed in fascination at her ability to keep the two safe & happy. There are precious moments happening all around me on a regular basis but for some reason this one pulled on my heart strings.
The light turned green and I continued another 50 feet to park and unload my groceries [bagged from the clerk who innocently wished me a happy Mother’s Day]. Suddenly I began to lose my breath a bit. Oh no- Oh no - Oh no – here it comes. CRASH. Single Sunday Blues.
Something I used to love doing with Mr. Ex was co-shopping for weekly groceries at the local food market. Mostly because we somehow seemed to make the normally uneventful task into a mobile comedy show by acting like complete goof balls, but I suppose because it also gave me a taste of family. Our disjointed lives were so completely independent on a day to day basis, but this one particular chore that we commonly shared provided a very rare sense of true companionship.
So I lug about 8 heavy bags full of fresh produce and poultry stacked up both forearms, overwhelmed by the beautiful moment of motherhood while time seemed to stand still, and tried to ignore the bitter taste in my mouth because I hate hate hate carrying groceries. For some reason I identify – no wait. I know exactly why. My Dad used to always help my Mom transfer them inside once she pulled in the garage. She didn’t ask him for help, but he showed up outside every single time to handle the manual labor. I guess it was his way of showing he appreciated her weekly aisle walking followed by making family meals, that he wanted to pitch in with some muscle power. So I suppose not having any help of extra hands, literally, is a double-whammy reminder of the man missing in my life.
What occurred to me though, on this Mother’s Day, isn’t just a case of the Sunday Blues due to being sans partnerhood, but also from being sans parenthood. I was ready to be a wife several years ago — that missing piece from my life is developing mold around it. But now, now I think the cliché biological tic toc is starting to catch-up & the old nursery rhyme had it right all along ~ First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage.
I’ve been perfectly content not having the responsibility for a little person’s life. In fact, even the thought scared me. But…it’s not just about me anymore. Life has to be more than going to and from work, going to the gym, cooking and eating dinner, watching TV, and falling asleep. And doing them all alone.
Finally I have outgrown my selfishness, and fear, of what reproduction entails. Not only do I want to share my life with an equal, but I want to create a life too.
Single & fabulous?
Age is just a number. Beauty is skin deep. Grey [hair] is the new black. Wait, what?
So I’m getting my day started and throwing in my disposable daily set of 20/20 eye vision when low & behold, I see something shiny in the bathroom mirror.
Now the track of electricity above me is full of 100 watt bulbs and could likely pass for Broadway spotlights, but it took me a full 90 seconds to grasp what was looking back at me in the reflection.
Two grey hairs. Or technically, silver. I literally kept changing positions with varying light bouncing off my mane to determine whether or not it was in fact just the illumination that was causing the sheen.
I eloquently and sporadically repeated the word “shit” out loud approximately 7 times over the next ten minutes. And then my mirror cracked.
Ok the mirror didn’t crack. But a few thoughts went through my head in this order.
“Maya [my hair dresser] about two months ago, enlightened me that she found “a few” grey hairs while applying color on my ashy brown roots. But it is one thing to ‘know’ something is there and then actually see it for yourself.” After finding the newly discovered strands, she lovingly pointed out to me, “Well now you *have* to color your hair!”
Excellent. Since high school I’ve been treating my furry head like an artist’s canvas and playing with highlights and dimension just for fun. Now I’m forced to cover up and eliminate unwanted sections like a terminator sprays for invasive insects.
Then I thought about my Mother. “She and her older sister used to pluck each other’s grey hairs in high school. So clearly I lucked out and bought myself an extra 12 years of visible youth. It could have been much worse.”
Just before turning 30 last summer, I wrestled with the *number*. But ultimately I accepted the birthday mile marker and embraced the fact that you’re “as young as you feel.” And seeing as though I’m basically in the best shape of my life, there wasn’t much to complain about.
For me I think it’s mostly psychological. We associate elderly folks with wrinkles, canes, and a head full of thinning white/silver/grey hair. And those two uninvited assholes are now propped up near my forehead, right in the nook of my natural part. Of course the attention-seekers had to make their home in the most visible section of my head.
My hair is my thing. Really and truly. I drop a lot of money into it. Some people like cars, some like attending live sporting events, some kill for a designer purse. I like having rockstar-esqe hair. It is something I “wear” every single day and personally believe it deserves the most love & attention vs. any other accessory. And to be honest, I happen to think that thick, silver hair can be fabulous. However, I’m just not ready [nor will be] for another 30 years.
Last night I was with a group of 16 people, celebrating a dear friend’s 29th birthday. And without fail, about ¾ of the way through the meal, it hit me – 14 of the attendees were married. Me and one (1) other single lady rounded out the even-numbered seating arrangements. That realization, which I’ve had many, many times, was yet another reminder of my “circumstances.” I also can’t help but notice [since I’ve been back in the solo saddle] very subtle looks of pity in eyes…almost like people want to “help” or “save” me. I know their intentions fully stem from care, concern & wanting the best for me, but sometimes I sorta feel like a child up for adoption. “Who wants this girl? Anyone? Look at her…she’s cute and has a lot of potential.”
There was an episode in the Sex & The City series where Carrie was asked to do a magazine spread. She stayed up through early morning hours partying and was late to the photo shoot — arrived looking rather rough. Well when it hit store shelves, she was mortified when the cover didn’t read “Single & Fabulous!” and instead questioned “Single & Fabulous?”
So this is it. This is my life: I’m 30 ¾ years old, single, and have [at least] two grey hairs. And then I remind myself, pulled directly from the trusty don’t-feel-bad-bag that’s always within arm’s reach: You are 30 ¾ years old, single, don’t have to change dirty diapers, can come and go as you please, and have your whole life ahead of you.
Now that is what I call a silver lining.
Evian.
Despite the Safe Drinking Water Act legislation, the public water system becomes contaminated across the United States of America approximately twice a year. Large quantities of females are impacted by becoming knocked up and/or acquire a diamond embedded within a shiny wearable accessory. This consistent, annual theme takes place every winter and again in late spring.
There has to be some kind of link between the cold, harsh conditions of January that lead people to want to a) stay inside, underneath warm covers…on top of each other, and/or b) kick off the New Year with a monumental life-merging initiative. As well as a connection between a) the warm, bright rays of vitamin D coming from sunshine in June that lead people to plant their own seeds inside an organic belly-shaped garden, and/or b) natural serotonin levels peaking from longer days which means more time outside, more exercise, creating more endorphins leading to blooming relationships being taken to the next level.
I can count on both hands as well as both feet the number of people currently preggers and recently engaged that I personally know. Right on schedule.
Sometimes it doesn’t faze me, sometimes it does.
Last year at this time, for example, Mr. Big & I had just broken up. And literally two days later, one of his closest friends who had dated someone a fraction of the time we had, took each other as fiancés. I was crushed. Not because I wasn’t happy for their happiness, but because I wanted what they had.
A year later, I’m in a very unique, yet familiar place. Everything has come 360. Back with my man friend, but still checking Single on my tax returns. Yet we could qualify as having a Common Law Marriage, as someone recently pointed out to me. I wholeheartedly know now that the best strategy is to gently reintegrate ourselves into the crevices of our daily lives again before sprinting down a petal-covered aisle, but I’m also so ready to *feel* like an adult.
I thank God for giving me youthful genes; people do not believe that I’m 30-years-old. A baby face is something I’ll never complain about. But that outer Johnson & Johnson persona masks my emotional state.
I don’t want to bar hop every weekend, or every other weekend for that matter. I don’t want to have a same sex roommate anymore. I don’t want to pay rent, or contribute to someone’s mortgage. I don’t want to worry about my fertility being in jeopardy in only a few short years. I don’t want to have to say good night to my partner over the phone. I don’t want to schedule seeing each other in the super short increments of time in between work/gym/sleep/traveling. I do want the government’s financial benefits of being married. I do want to have some substance to contribute among colleagues who only seem to yap about husbands and babies. I do want to host dinner parties among our coupled friends in a furnished dining room. I do want to decorate a new house together. I do want to grocery shop together, and co-carry bags back from the car. I do want to make two-person meals and not have to package 3 days worth of leftovers in Tupperware. I do want a backyard. I do want a dog. I do want a dog playing in the backyard. I do want to have yard sales. I do want to wake up next to my love every morning. I do want to fall asleep next to my sidekick every night.
It has never been about planning a wedding. In fact, it is quite the opposite for me. I have very little interest in the actual D-day details (which I fully blame on my myriad of past RSVP nuptial receptions) that I may have to begin drinking a bottle of bride juice when my time comes to get the stuff in my system. The glorified day-long party is just a symbol. For me, it has always been about incorporating my best friend into my daily life, period. No, I’m not quite ready to push strollers around and swap my Coach purse for a diaper bag. But I am ready to have a guest room that could easily be converted to a changing station if necessary. (For the record, I will likely get a Coach diaper bag. Yes - they exist).
Despite being one of the last few standing from my high school and college comrades to have absolutely no strings attached by way of marital contracts or offspring, [caveat: many of those former classmates have already gotten divorced… so I recognize that the grass isn’t necessarily always greener over there] I have and continue to put my trust in God that His timing is perfect, and that He’ll lead me to my husband. Obviously my wish is to take Big’s last name, but that too is TBD.
In the interim, while I patiently wait for love and life to sort itself out — hydrating with filtered, bottled water will continue to be my drink of choice.
