Halloween weekend is upon us, ushered in by chilly nights and a waning but still bright Hunter’s Moon. Ghosts and gremlins appear on neighborhood streets and office hallways, though the spectre that haunts many of us most this time of year is the question, what costume should I wear?
Can you guess this year’s costume?
Dressing up is no longer as simple as finding an old sheet: cut eye holes, it’s a ghost, wrap it around you, it’s a toga. These days Halloween attire requires navigating sticky questions. Why does the woman’s firefighter costume come with a mini-skirt and garter? Does dressing the dog in a tutu qualify as animal torture? And for those who are in a relationship: do we or don’t we couple up our costumes? Continue reading →
Last weekend, my girlfriends threw me a bachelorette party. I was chauffeured by my friend Shannon to a local winery that was hosting an evening of live music and wine-tasting. They also had a food truck there with BBQ, but maid of honor Melissa and her cohorts had provided such an incredible spread—chicken salad croissants, fresh strawberries and grapes, veggies and hummus, delicious cupcakes with pink frosting and “pearls”—we never went near the truck. I was provided with the requisite tiara and a hot pink boa and gifted a basket filled with wedding-day-support supplies. We drank wine, we danced, we played a surprisingly difficult game where we had to guess whether a particular title belonged to a nail polish or a porn flick.
Should it really be that tough to tell the difference?
The weather was pitch perfect, the setting beautiful. As the sun dropped, the mountains in the distance shaded periwinkle, navy, then black. The band played until 10, and as darkness fell, my last wild fling as a single gal drew to a close.
I was home by 11 PM.
I suppose that’s what happens when you’re a forty-something first-time bride.
But I think the early and—naughty nail polish labels notwithstanding—generally tame nature of the evening was less about, ah, advanced age than it was a lack of a sense of urgency.
A bachelorette party gives you permission, of sorts, to be silly, cut loose, dance with abandon. I did my best! I felt like a princess (glittery crown and Royal Feathered Ring Pop included), and everything about the evening made me feel special–the details of the decorations, the generosity of my friends, the graciousness of those who danced with me even when the music was unfamiliar to us all. I was awed and deeply grateful.
I also, though, had a moment while I was out on the dance floor, when I felt a strange sense of peace. I realized that, beyond the boa, the evening felt so, well, normal. There wasn’t any sense this was some last hurrah, no pressure that I’d better enjoy hanging with my girlfriends now because everything was going to change, no worry that I might never have fun like this again.
Of the women who celebrated with me, one or two of them have been married nigh onto twenty years. A couple have been married one or four or six years. Some have been through tough divorces and remarried, others have never tied the knot. One is in a long-term committed relationship, while another recently said, “I don’t date. When would I date? I have all this other stuff I want to do.” One is thinking about trying Match.com again. One is engaged. Another is embarking solo on a journey of self-discovery filled with travels near and far. Several just returned from trips to places like Canada and Croatia. Most live local-ish, but my girlhood gal pal Sherry drove all the way from Georgia for the weekend.
So here’s what I know: My girlfriends all have rich, layered, complex lives. Yet no matter what the state of our romantic relationships, or where we find ourselves hanging our hats, we still get together and laugh. Drink wine. Talk about books. Share recipes and relationship stories and pictures of kids and pets. We hike up mountains and dance to 80s music. We’ve done it all before, and I have no reason to think anything else but that we’ll do it all again. There might not be a tiara involved, but if the universe is willing, we’ll have many more fun-filled evenings and heart-to-hearts.
And I’m so, so grateful for that, too.
Steve and I have talked at length about the vows we’ll make to one another. I’ve been thinking, too, about the vows I want to make to myself. At the top of the list:
Make at least a couple of girlfriends dates a month. Honoring and investing in friendships outside the marriage enriches life and spreads the happiness wealth.
Girlfriends!
Other vows I make to myself, in support of a loving and lasting marriage:
Travel somewhere by myself at least once a year. It doesn’t have to be a big trip, but it keeps things fresh, because Steve and I will have new stories to tell one another. And it’s good for me to remember I can be solo and self-reliant. I want to bring a whole person, always, to our union.
Do something that scares me at least once a week. It doesn’t have to be scary to anyone else (cold-calling anyone makes me tremble), but again—sometimes it’s a little too easy to let a willing partner “rescue” you from the hard stuff, and while it’s good to need someone, it’s not good to become overly dependent.
Make mental and physical space for quiet reflection. I am a better and nicer person (and a better partner and more present listener) when I journal, lose myself in a workout, or both.
Write and make art: if I’m not doing either, I have lost a piece of myself somewhere, which means Steve will have lost a piece of me, too.
Embrace change. Might as well. It’s inevitable. 🙂
Nineteen days and counting. Hoo boy.
Special thanks to my bridal party Melissa (right of me), DB, and Sherry for an awesome evening and many years of wonderful friendship!
Back in 2011 I took a research trip to Louisville, Kentucky, to do some writing and interview a friend who lived there. I’d lived in Louisville for a short but significant six months the year after I graduated from college, when I’d moved north to complete an internship with Actors Theatre, and I’d been back to visit a few times since. For the research trip I’d booked a room in a B&B in Old Louisville, just across from Central Park, around the corner from my former apartment, and—best of all—within walking distance of my favorite place in town: the neighborhood of St. James and Belgravia Courts, home to a plethora of grand old Victorian manses whose architecture I never tired of ogling.
I was glad to escape home, for a few days at least, and an on-again, off-again quasi-relationship I’d gotten myself involved in, which had been further complicated by a former boyfriend who’d also been calling. The first man wanted to be friends-with-benefits but remained emotionally distant, while the second pursued emotional intimacy but avoided sex. Both were dodging committing to a full-on relationship, and I was frustrated.
On my last evening in Louisville, I visited my houses one final time. St. James Court and Belgravia intersect in a T-shape, and I liked to trace the T, starting on the right of St. James (the base), stroll along Belgravia (the top), and finish my walk down the left side of St. James.
I’d photographed a gray and white cat in front of one of the Belgravia houses (cats abound on the pedestrian-only court) and tried to capture a beautiful library aglow through a window. All I was eyeing were shelves of books, but I felt like a peeping Tom, so I skulked, camera in hand, giddy with guilt.
Kitty on Belgravia
Peeping into the library
A man approached from St. James, and I figured I was about to get scolded. I palmed my camera, but he just stopped and said, “Why does everyone have cameras? What’s everyone taking pictures of?”
Huh, so maybe he wasn’t part of the neighborhood watch. Forty-something, reasonably trim, close-cropped gray hair, regular features—he was handsome in an ordinary guy kind of way. He wore a plain t-shirt and shorts.
“Oh, I just think the houses here are so beautiful,” I said. “And I used to live here.”
“I was wondering,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m here from out of town, and I keep seeing all these people with cameras. I thought, well, the houses are pretty, but why so many cameras?” He paused. “Where did you move to? Where do you live now?”
“Roanoke, Virginia,” I said.
He looked surprised. “That’s quite a move.”
“Well, there’ve been a few in-between,” I said, not quite sure what to make of the whole conversation. I was wary—he seemed nice enough, but I’d forgotten to put my phone in my pocket. I hadn’t planned to stay out after dark, either, so I was minus a light source. No one else was out walking, though we were surrounded by homes. The man lingered, so I asked, “You said you’re here from out of town—where are you from?”
“Evanston, Illinois area,” he said. He traveled to set up new grocery store displays for organic frozen vegetables. “It’s not that exciting,” he said, “but it’s good money.”
“Well, any job in this economy is a good one,” I replied.
We introduced ourselves—his name was Tim—and he asked about my job. I told him I taught and wrote, that I was doing some research in town. He asked me if the area was safe, which was reassuring. I played tour guide, extolling the neighborhood and selling him on the charms of the historic downtown hotels; he was staying at a chain and thought it dull.
At some point, I mentioned I was leaving town the next day.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” he said, looking genuinely disappointed. “If you weren’t headed out tomorrow, maybe we could have had dinner.”
Oh. “Yes, that would have been nice, but I’m headed out at 8 AM.”
“Yes, that would have been nice. Unless—are you married?”
I laughed. No, not married.
“Because that might have made it a problem.” He peered at me intently in the dusk. “Have you ever been married?” I shook my head. “How come you’ve never been married? I mean, you’re so attractive, and your personality is, too.”
“Yeah, I’ve gotten that question before,” I said. “I don’t know.” Maybe if someone I’d dated had asked me to marry them, instead of asking why I wasn’t yet married?
Suddenly Tim said, “I’m recently divorced.”
Uh oh. Even in a strange city, out minding my own business taking pictures of gargoyles, I was a magnet for a man on the rebound.
“Recently” was about a year; Tim had been married for twenty. “And this dating thing, you know,” he said, “I tried to go to a bar and meet someone, and that’s just not for me. It’s hard.”
I’d been dating five years longer than Tim had been married. I suggested Match.com and told him about the Meetup outdoor club I’d joined.
Tim said he wasn’t ready for a relationship. I understood, given his circumstances, but the refrain was a little too familiar. Then he said, “When you’ve been married that long, it’s hard, you know.” He paused. “I mean, especially the sexual thing.”
“Yeah, dating is tough these days. Maybe you need a friend-with-benefits, something uncomplicated.” Right—because that was working out so well for me. “But if you’re looking to meet people, just make friends, Meetup really is great.”
Tim shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, saying, again, “Yeah, I’m not ready for a relationship, but after you’ve been married twenty years and then there’s no sex, that’s hard.” The light was slowly dawning. “It’s too bad you’re leaving tomorrow. It would be nice to have dinner.” He was definitely angling for a fling, but he’d prefer to buy me dinner before he propositioned me. That was nice.
“Yes,” I said, “I’m out bright and early in the morning.”
“I guess it would be too forward to ask if you’d like company tonight?” Tim smiled hopefully.
Oh boy. “Oh, well, I’m flattered, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.
“No friends with benefits, huh?” Tim said wistfully. I wasn’t sure he understood the concept, as he and I weren’t friends. Perfect strangers with benefits was a one night stand.
“Well, it’s just—I’m flattered, but I don’t think so.” I pictured walking back into the bed and breakfast, passing the innkeepers as I headed upstairs with a strange man in tow: “Look what I found on my walk!”
“Well, it’s just that you’re so attractive, it couldn’t hurt to ask,” he said. Awkward silence. He looked so sad. If he was a serial killer, his was a really convincing shtick.
“I’d give you a card, but I don’t have any on me,” I added, hoping the “maybe someday” element of the gesture might take the sting out a bit.
Tim spread his arms wide, palms up. “Me either, I just threw this on, had to get out of the hotel room for a little while.”
We shook hands, said good night. I turned back toward the B&B, shaking my head at the absurdity of the evening: I go for a walk to take pictures of pretty doorways, and I get propositioned for sex by a stranger. There had to be a nice guy out there somewhere, healed and whole, who wanted an actual relationship—didn’t there? As I walked I toyed with the wording for a funny Facebook status, thinking I’d post something about the encounter for a laugh.
But it was too raw, too poignant. Tim was so lonely. His advances were clumsy, a little desperate. And not a little courageous. But mostly he was lonely. Lonely and horny and wondering how he got there and trying to figure out what to do to get somewhere else. Just like everyone else. Just like me.
Night had fallen. As I walked back down St. James, the manses lining the street blurred in the gathering darkness, their beauty no less for my not being able to see it, in that moment more remote and inaccessible than ever.
A few years ago I made the longest hike of my life to the top of McAfee’s Knob, one of the most-photographed spots on the Appalachian Trail. From trailhead to summit and back is only a little over six miles, and I’ve hiked much lengthier stretches. But there’s something about having your beliefs derided most of the way up and the virtues of celibacy preached at you most of the way down that affects your perception of distance.
I’d met the day’s hiking partner, whom I’ll call R., a few months before, doing some local film work. We’d had a good time goofing around on set and became Facebook friends. R. was also in his late-thirties and enjoyed running and biking and performing. We had a couple casual dates, but the potential for a relationship was limited—he lived over an hour away, and our values were dramatically different. He puzzled me, which was dangerous. People who perplex me compel my attention: mystify me, and I’ll stick around a while just to try and figure you out.
So one clear summer afternoon, with nothing (and no one) else in the offing, I invited him to go hiking. Continue reading →
More than once I have wondered, as a 21st-century bride who lived the first third of my life in the 20th-century, what it would have been like to plan a wedding before the advent of the internet.
Easier in some ways, no doubt. For one thing, the sheer volume of wedding ideas on Pinterest alone is near-paralyzing. The more choices you have, the harder it is to make a decision. Malcolm Gladwell illustrates this phenomenon in his bestseller Blink when he describes psychologist Sheena Iyengar’s jam experiment: consumers who had 24 jams to choose from purchased one 3% of the time, but when offered only 6 choices, 30% bought a jar. Other studies have shown how people get caught in an endless loop of serial online dating, seduced by a sense of endless possibilities. The same phenomenon occurs when faced with an apparently endless array of wedding dress or bouquet styles.
Sign here…or?
And then there’s the creepy factor: as soon as I search for, say, “jewelry with blue stones” on Etsy, the ads running down the side of my Facebook feed are filled with…jewelry featuring blue stones. Shortly thereafter, I receive an email on the same subject. I don’t know how much direct (paper) marketing wedding vendors did before the web, but my email inbox overflows with all things bridal. The internet brought with it more items on the bride’s to-do list: TheKnot.com’s recently updated checklists added “Search for (flowers, dresses, centerpieces, etc).” And most couples these days create and maintain the near-requisite wedding website.
And then there are the social media pre-nuptial agreements.
You read that right.
With this Post, I Thee Contract
Shortly after Steve and I got engaged last year, ABC News and Time magazine reported on the rise of social media pre-nuptial agreements. Apparently couples are increasingly creating and signing on to contracts that detail “what they can and can’t post online” and, in many cases, imposing monetary fines for violations (more on that in a moment). Charlotte Alter captured the absurdity of this phenomenon nicely, I thought: “Dating a jerk who cares more about his Facebook than your feelings? Don’t worry! You can get a social media pre-nup to protect your online reputation while you continue to sleep with the callous twit of your dreams.”
Um, why would you want to do either of those things?
I know from experience a person’s online behavior offers considerable insight. I once dated a man whose political and religious beliefs contrasted mine. In person, he discussed those differences rationally, and indicated respect for my point of view. He also had an online avatar he thought was anonymous (not so much) which he used for commenting on articles and websites. Online, when he thought no one was looking, he was irrational, disrespectful, and full of vitriol. Hello—and good-bye—Mr. Hyde.
I’ve also lived the “don’t post any pictures of us together” relationship. A person who won’t claim you as a partner publicly is not a partner you want.
It’s a no-brainer. If you don’t like how your partner treats or represents you on social media while you’re dating or engaged, and you strongly suspect he or she would misrepresent or mistreat you online if the marriage dissolved, maybe you shouldn’t marry that person.
And then there’s those monetary fines: pay your partner $50,000 (choke) if you post an “unflattering photo.” Unless all your finances are completely separate, how is one spouse paying another not the equivalent of playing with Monopoly money? If you later draw upon that money for a mutual expense, haven’t you just created ill-will for no good reason?
Healthy couples don’t contract; they communicate. “Hey honey,” I said to Steve, when I got online to post some photos from one of our beach trips. “I’m going to post some pictures. Which ones do you like? Is this one okay? What about this one?” I thought he looked handsome in all of them, of course. But when he said yes to the first and frowned at the second, I respected his choice.
This photo is mutually approved!
That wasn’t so hard, was it?
Most people know airing dirty laundry or making passive-aggressive comments about a partner is a bad idea in any public forum, be it social media or a backyard social. If it’s an issue, instead of visiting a lawyer for a pre-nup, you might want to see a counselor for professional relationship guidance. Research has shown that couples who offer five positive statements—compliments, expressions of thanks, etc.—for every one critical piece of feedback are more likely to stay together.
World Wired Weird
Everything has its flip side. Planning a wedding sans the web would also be harder in some ways. There would be no wedding website, which–though time-consuming initially–allowed us to streamline our invitations, and relieved some pressure when they were slightly delayed. I’m a bit phone-phobic, so I’m thrilled to be able to communicate with vendors via email. I would miss having access to online craft tutorials and Etsy. And obviously, without the web, I wouldn’t have the opportunity or joy of chronicling this journey on a blog.
We’re gonna skip the social media pre-nup.
Yes, everything has its flip side. For many years I struggled to appreciate the boons of being single. My schedule was my own, I could decorate my home any way I liked, and adopt as many cats as I pleased. 🙂 But I was lonely (cats notwithstanding), and I wanted someone to laugh with, someone to hold me, someone to share my thoughts with, to ask, “How was your day?”
Steve and I haven’t yet walked down the aisle, but one of the gifts our almost-marriage has already granted is perspective: the understanding it’s all a trade-off. I can more fully appreciate the gifts of the life I’ve led up to now, even as I thrill to the prospect of exchanging those gifts for others. I now, finally, see the whole of my life, as, well, whole.
Here at the crossroads, I look back and I look forward. And everything I see is a brave new world.
I’m taking the weekend off from wedding planning and spending it at my first ever blog conference, BlogHer 2015 in NYC, which has been inspiring. I was surprised to find they’d chosen my wedding colors as the conference palette. 🙂
It’s a conference packed with smart, engaged, and vibrant women, and I’ve been moved to tears by excellent writing and powerful commitment more than once. And don’t tell Steve, but I met some nice fellas at the Expo…
Who doesn’t love a hug?.
My hero, Aquafresh Man!
It’s a bit overwhelming—so many people to meet, so much to learn, so much swag. It was kind of cool at the Stylecaster community party to get to personalize my own conference bag with a screen print of a leafy plant wearing glasses. I’m a nature nerd, okay?
I’m still trying to figure out Twitter, as I feel a bit old-fashioned without more social media savvy in this context.
Stylecaster screenprints
Real heroes: Girl Scouts!
I was most impressed by a keynote featuring Girl Scout CEO Ana Maria Chavez and two Girl Scouts. One young woman, Monique, a former Girl Scout who is now a junior in college, really impressed me with her confidence and no-nonsense advice.
“Your voice is free,” she said. “Use it.”
Amen, sister.
Steve and I also wandered a bit in the city, particularly enjoying the High Line, a park created on what’s left of a former el-train that once ran through the city. It was a weirdly beautiful day for July in the city–sunny, with a light breeze, and low humidity. The park was unique and impressive—great views, innovative architecture, and attention to local plantings.
High Line flowers
Trains in waiting
Flora and fauna
And it’s funny how there always seem to be reminders of love anywhere we go, even in schoolyard artwork and a community Lego build….
Forty-Something First Time Bride 