Celebrate Irony

 Posted by at 7:20 pm  Relationship
Jul 132010
 

 jenna cole bnw

We had gathered together at my parents house July of 2009. 
Mary, Danielle, Kelly and myself. 
Plus my sister, Melissa, and my mom.  A weekend of girly.  A weekend of friendship and love. A weekend of celebration. A weekend of to-do. 
Jenna Cole photo shoot, Bridal Tea, crafting centerpieces and invitations, making lists upon lists, eating at the kitchen table, drinking in the living room, talking into the wee hours of the night, and a snazzy tiara topped Bachelorette Night out on the town. 

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I didn’t have a wedding, but I had a bridal party.  I didn’t have a wedding, but we sipped tea and played shower games.  I didn’t have a wedding, but I had a night of wearing a tiara and leading a conga line.  I didn’t have a wedding, but I planned a wedding. I didn’t have a wedding, but I had found a dress, made invitations and made 1000 tiny decisions and then 1000 more. I didn’t have a wedding, but I have the memory of this fabulous weekend in D-town, with the girls who live in Houston, and Denver, and St. Paul and who all traveled several hours to be with me.     

 

We were sitting in the office, spread out between the two desks, and sprawled across the floor. I had brought something special from New York that I thought these ladies would have fun with.  I had brought the elusive green books.  We were working on construction of the invitations.  Putting together the last pieces of the suite, stuffing the envelopes and copying the addresses from the master copy of the spread sheet.  Danielle was flipping through the original EGB when she found a real gem hidden in the pages.  A list I had added while in college titled “Reasons Why I Will Never Get Married.” Danielle’s interpretive reading of the list brought a general teasing pointed in my direction, pausing for effect and waiting for the giggles to pass on lines which often stated humorous, seemingly bitter post-Bridget Jones Diary reading attitude.  Oh, the irony.  I was getting married in just six weeks.  Here we were celebrating the upcoming ceremony together.  Here we were adding stamps to the corner of each envelope to go in the mail just a few days later.  Here we were laughing at how naive and foolish I had been just a few years earlier; to assume, playfully or not that I would never marry, hilarious! ridiculous! just look at me now! 

 

just look at me now.

 

We were sitting in Jen’s office, today, during lunch.  Eating a catered lunch together, the three women in the office.  Enjoy one another’s company.  Enjoy one another’s stories.  We started discussing the engagement of a co-worker, and soon the stories shifted to how these two wonderful woman found themselves ready to marry their husbands.  We talked about differences.  We talked about similarities.  I pointed out that they were both completely perfect.  Neither story was ridiculously overdone or romantic.  Neither of the stories had the word “proposal” or the asking of the question “Will you marry me.”  But both story was uniquely perfect for the couple whose story it was.

I didn’t share my story.  I don’t have a husband, but I was asked the question.  I don’t have a marriage, but I said yes.  I don’t have a “Mrs.” before my name, but I have the memories.  Calling my parents, and closest friends.  Toasting with a clank of two lemon drop shot glasses, as my roommate Kelly told everyone we saw that night that he and I were just engaged. Sitting with my fiancé, and our “Maidpft of Honor” and Best Man. 

moh engagementnight  

Excitement all around and so much sparkle. 

I don’t have a husband or a new last name, but in hearing these stories from these wonderful women today, in the middle of my work day, over a plate of food from the best local deli, helped me to remember the good times associate with the engagement.  The friends and the celebration.  The congratulations and the toasts.  The excitement and the newness. The designing an invitation suite and deciding on a font.  The feeling special every time someone called me bride. 

Hearing these stories helped me to remember that I don’t need to rush it.  I don’t need to want it.  I don’t need to wish for it.  That when it’s right, it’s right.  It will be right no matter what it looks like in comparison to others’ relationships or other relationships of my own.  Just as it’s right now, in this moment, for me to be single and to be celebrating that I’m single.  It’s right.

 

I was sitting at my pretend office, this evening; the corner table near the outlet at the coffee shop I frequent.  I had my headphones in as I was responding to emails and watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip on Netflix Instant Streaming.  I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around me until the episode ended.  Then I looked to my right, just as I overheard the wedding coordinator confirm that they were just under 6 weeks away from the wedding, as they moved on to a list of details to confirm.  A wreath debate, an order of who is ushering who down the aisle, a discussion on a desired length of ceremony.  A bride, a groom, a coordinator.

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I chuckled out loud, on accident. I chuckled out loud at the thought of six weeks until wedding. When she looked over her shoulder, I pretended to be giggling at something Amanda Peet just said.  Just look at me now. It’s right.  

Enter a Title

 Posted by at 1:37 am  Relationship
Jul 132010
 

I’m sitting here, in my little office, in my little apartment.  Cocktail, peanuts, and olives within reach.  I am sitting here because it’s time to celebrate CELEBRATE.  I am sitting here because all I know to do is to sit here, fingers typing away on the sixth draft of the night.  The “Enter a title” heading looking me deep into the eye, waiting for the words to come.  Celebration of this kind in it’s purest form.

Sip cocktail and the words will flow.
Peanuts.
Olive.
Peanuts.
Olive.
Sip.

 

No words.  No words because there are too many words.   So many words in the last 365 days.  The last 52 weeks.  The last 12 months.  The last summer, fall, winter and spring.  The last year. 

365 days and I have nothing to say?  Or is it that I have everything to say?
sip. peanuts. olive. peanuts. olive. sip.

 

Sometimes when I am worried about how a blog post will be received I send it over to Julie before I press publish.  She’s like my go-to editor, only I haven’t really paid her much of anything yet.  If she saw this now she would probably say something like, “You have a lot of words, but you aren’t really saying anything.” Olive. Sip. What do I want to say?  What do I have to say?

 

Do I start with the fact that a year has passed and I feel fantastic?  I’ve learned my lessons and I’m moving forward.  Each day is new, each moment an opportunity.  Do I speak with encouragement and self love and promise of a better me? But don’t I say that in every post?  Are you getting sick of hearing it?  Am I getting sick of saying it?

 

Do I want to say that I am finally feeling some anger?  For so many days I held on so tightly to forgiveness, and understanding, and strength I felt I had to hold on to with a death grip not only for myself, but for my loved ones whom showed concern.  I was determined to be the bigger person. I was determined to be the example of grace and peace in this situation; but why?  To be like Christ? To be who I thought I should be?  To be who I thought I wanted to be?  To enter a title?

 

Olive. Peanut. sip. sip. sip.

 

Am I brave enough to admit that on this day part of me wants to throw a party, drink a bottle of wine, and dance until the sun comes up.  Am I more brave to admit that on this day part of me wants to lay in bed, and listen to sad music, and shut myself off from the world? Am I most brave in admitting that I still doubt that I will find something similar to the disguise we were wearing together? Wondering why I even fall to the Americanized ideal of falling in love and living happily ever after, as I think about the day I never wore the white dress, never exchanged vows and rings and sweet smiles across the alter.  Am I weak in tearing, as the lyrics of a song titled “We are Man and Wife” play in my ear buds, wondering if  I am foolish in one regard or another.  For having believed in us, or for believing in a future fairytale even though I so often regret to say so out loud.  For adding such a song to my playlist tonight, which admits my wanting to feel the sting so that I can take note that I am still alive, still aware, still awake to pain and love and fear and hope.

 

sip. breathe. sip.

 

I hate this. To admit this. I hate to type this out. Sometimes, I miss him. And I don’t know why.  I don’t want anything to do with him.  I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to think about him. But I do.  I watch a band on a stage and I can’t help but stare at the motions the drummer is making.  I hear a song he used to sing to make me laugh when I was angry.  I remember one good memory from the never ending stacks of bad memories, and I wish things were different.  I don’t know why this happens. Is this normal? Why can’t I be bitter?

It’s still a fight to be angry.  I try, but it is not coming easily.  It’s still a fight to remember that it’s okay to be upset, and frustrated, and ticked off at the situation, at the wool over my eyes all along. 

Maybe that’s the issue.  The fact that it’s not so much what happened to me, as more of the pain of knowing that I mistreated myself for so long.  I may have known from the very beginning, yet I continued to pull the wool over my own eyes, in order to play make believe, pretending we were perfect for one another. Pretending I wasn’t just a cover up for issues he had yet to deal with.  Pretending that my place in our relationship wasn’t just a cover up for issues I had yet to deal with.  That I have still yet to deal with.  So far away from where I was before, yet not so much closer to knowing all there is for me to know. 

 

365 days, 52 weeks, 12 months, 4 seasons, and 1 year later and here I am, searching for an answer.  Enter a Title, still blinking at the top of my screen.  A year ago, I became the single girl, starting a journey of self-discovery and healing.  A year ago, I sat on the floor of my bedroom and sobbed, taking a moment to let the weight of what had just happened sink in – to question why something that only happens in the movies was taking place in my life.  A year ago, I got the hiccups, after one too many drinks at the bar, which made me giggle, which made me cry.  A year ago I lost the title.  A year ago I questioned what was next, searching for an answer.  A year later, here I am, searching for an answer.  “Enter a title” still blinking at the top of my screen. Alone in my apartment ringing in the new year the only way that seems fitting: a single girl in a single chair in a single apartment. Olive. Peanut. Sip. CHEERS!