Redbeard

Three years ago I met a man I thought was going to be the love of my life.  He was slightly older, dedicated, intelligent and he declared his love for me swift and often. He had a beard before I even knew I liked beards and ginger hair.

At first I wasn't even sure I could like him because I could barely see his eyelashes and his nine years senior was something I hadn't bargained for. But then he brought me a college sweatshirt to my library when I got into graduate school and made me tea in the morning. So I fell hard and slept in his bed most nights.

For a long time, things were good. Really good. There were trips and lots of laughs. People pulled me aside at parties, called me on the phone, sent emails; all to tell me that he was a keeper.  "He's the one you've been waiting for," they said. And I agreed with every inch of my being.

And then, at the start of a fresh new year, it ended. I came home on a Monday to find him still in sweatpants, his teeth unbrushed, some unremembered movie on the television. I hung up my coat, asked what we were doing for dinner and he responded with "We need to talk," started crying and broke my heart.

Within an hour the new luggage set my parents bought him was reclaimed with my dresses and shoes. Long forgotten mail, mismatched socks and granola bars I just purchased stuffed into a half dozen garbage bags. He refused to look at me and washed dishes in the kitchen.

Then there is long story of how I made my body forget him. How my winter was cold, my spring sad and how in summer I decides to let go. But the truth is that I haven't forgotten him. If I pause long enough, make the world quiet enough, I still smell him. I see the way he smiled at me when I was being emotionally ridiculous.

I love-hate that. Part of me never wants to forget that a person once loved me so completely. The other part of me wants to ship away the memories and start fresh. Even if means never feeling that way again.   Finding that feeling just doesn't happen easily. At least not for me, the girl who dates but rarely has a boyfriend. Not before, not after.

See, I'm celebrating birthday number 30 this week. It's been filled with flowers, lunches and dinners. There were gifts and Facebook messages.  But nothing from him.  I'm not foolish enough to be shocked. But I can't help but be disappointed that I mean so little.  Did he really forget our first unofficial first-date was campaigning for President Obama on my 27th birthday? Did he really forget that our 3rd year anniversary is this weekend? Because I just don't understand how a body can remove those things from memory.

If there is a secret, I'd love to know.

Always a...

Bridesmaid. Earlier in the week I was asked to be one. Again. For the 8th time in four years.

So once again this spring I'll be donning a brown dress with a bubble skirt and getting my hair done while trying to put on my face that suggests I really care about flowers. And though the dress isn't actually hideous and though the bride is truly someone I love and one who waited a long time to find love, I can't help but dread it just a bit.

I'm touched that she asked me because we both lost someone important in our lives recently.  She's not a friend who is just trying to keep her numbers even or is striving to have the biggest bridal party this side of the Mississippi.  I wouldn't have ever dreamed about saying no, because I want to be there on a day that will surely be bittersweet but stand with her when she celebrates the true love she so deserves.

But here is the deal.  As a single girl who has never been engaged and certainly never been married. I can't actually admit to anyone except other like-minded women that I kind of dread weddings. I can't admit aloud that I have had so many years of oogling engagement rings and buying gifts off of registries that my heart is starting to grow cold.  I hate the bridal mentality of "it's my day so I get what I want" so much that I automatically anticipate it. I think it screams of selfishness and it's just plain rude. I hate how the whole day suggests that this one particular girl is better than the rest because some guy asked her to marry him. Nothing about the day celebrates her own accomplishments; just the ring on her finger and the white dress. So even if the bride never exhibits a lick of "-zilla"symptoms, I constantly fear it. 

No single bridesmaid can ever tell her bride-friend to cool it. That the fact that she hasn't considered the style of dress she picked for her girls may not be flattering, expects multiple bridal showers (and subsequently gifts), requests hair styled in certain way (and on the worst occasions dyed a certain color) just has to go unnoticed. None of that is even a fleck of pepper on your friend's teeth.  Because no one even debates for a minute if they should open their mouths and say something.  Because the unspoken rule is that you don't piss off the bride. No matter how unreasonable. And maybe it's because I have this overwhelming sense of responsibility to others, worry too much about the happiness of those around me and was generally raised to be polite.* But none of that sounds appealing to me. 

And being a bridesmaid is a day filled with so many emotions. It's about happiness for your friend, but dread because you know you're just a few steps closer to losing her. It's about looking pretty but understanding that no one really cares because you're not wearing white.  It's about the stress of wondering if your single-self will be honored with a guest invite, and when are, agonizing over who to bring. Chances are you'll go by yourself and take advantage of the open bar. You may say a prayer that just maybe this will be the event where you meet your significant other. Or in the very least you hope there will be a cute, straight groomsman. And then you'll be quietly disappointed when you realize that at this age, the single table is just a dwindling few and there is no one you'll be taking home. Not for a night. Not forever. Your fairy tale is not to be written while sitting in a chair covered in sheets that cost more than your cell phone bill.  And the worst part? The reality that you don't even want that story tends to get lost in the fog.

So yeah, I'll just be over here pretending that one more 27 Dresses comparison is funny. I'll start hoping that if I don't at least have a date for this particular wedding, I can scrounge one up for the other two that are on the calendar for next summer.  And if not? I better have fair better hair than Katherine Heigel ever does, a kick-ass pair of heels and they better be stocking a variety of alcohol at the open bar.

*Don't worry, I'm trying to work on this. It's probably deserves it's own blog post and many therapy sessions. 

Check Me Out

I struggle with introductions. I want to come off polished and put-together so much that I usually end up tripping over my words and making a fool of myself. And apparently this affliction carries over to the Internet as well.  I've been struggling for a few days on what to say in my first official post.

But what is better to discuss than the truth? I'm making a solemn promise to myself and our readers to be as real as possible on this blog. Put the good and bad out there and though I may regret actions, I have no intention of feeling sorry about feelings. No time to start than the present.

So many events that occurred in my 29th year (Why hello 30, I see you sitting there on the horizon. I'll deal with you in a few weeks) felt like my world was bottoming out: the demise of my long-term relationship, the death of a family member, moving in with parents, readjusting my short-term goals. It was just too much to take.

And then you know what? Suddenly it wasn't.  It was accepting that a boyfriend who would rather spend time with porn than with you isn't the right long-term match. It was understanding that our loved ones want us to be happy, so it's time cut the crap and move on. It was accepting that we're all going to have setbacks and in the long run, mine wasn't so bad.

Not that I would try to suggest that all of this happened brightly one morning and all was fine. Most definitely not. It was more of many nights crying my eyes out, soaking my poor soul in the bathtub with wine and books by my side, a healthy amount of friendship and a job that saved my sanity. Arguably some margaritas, a few mini-trips and retail therapy too.

My new smart is realizing that this single me is a brilliant dichotomy. I can read contemporary literature then veg out for hours with a reality show marathon. I am the girl his parents love but have him begging for more before dessert.  I'll mock your wedding shower but be the one crying the hardest out of happiness when you walk down the aisle. I don't know if I want to have children, but I do know I'd love to adopt. I live on a a cramping budget but I'll find to a way to hop on a plane and go on vacation.

Suddenly I've reached a point in my life where I actually have a small pool of men vying for my attention. I can boast a masters degree, teaching certificates, a foreign country and even a few local newspapers articles written about me. I wear pencil skirts, kitten heels and you'll rarely catch me in pants because I love my body. Through the struggles, and even in the midst of the fog of doubt, I've reached one of the happiest junctures in my life. I'm dedicated, I'm loyal, I'm sweet. But I'm also bold, sassy and surprisingly sometimes shy. This is me and I love it.

I may not be one of those women who sees themselves flying through life solo and feels at peace with it. I want to share my world with someone. I hope to find the one who wants to stick around. But until that actually happens, and my now-jaded shell starts chipping away, I'm going to have pursue my own balance.

Someone else can go ahead and settle for the boring guy who is going to buy her designer handbags and take her to the beach every summer.  I'll be over here going on first dates, telling great stories and not feeling guilty in the slightest for ordering another drink at happy hour.