Perspective

Ok. So. I think I've officially calmed the fuck down. As you may have noticed, I've been a bit of a nutcase about this whole marriage thing lately. I got engaged, I got completely giddy about dresses and flowers and escort cards, and then I got terrified about the permanent parts of all this.

And then I decided to do the A Practical Wedding book club. And the book was Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert (of Eat, Pray, Love fame).

Side note: Ms. Gilbert's website is absolutely awful. A yellow background? Your own photo taking up half the page? Comic Sans!? I refuse to link to a particular book seller's site because I'm not trying to get you to buy it, but I was sorely tempted.

So: Committed. It turns out that other people in the world are as afraid of marriage as I am. And as absolutely terrified of divorce as I am, too. It's ok that I'm not completely giddy, over the moon, falling over myself to show off The Rock and tell some magical proposal story and gush about whatever mundane-to-everyone-but-me detail I decided on for the wedding in the last ten minutes. I'd let this lack of all-glowing-excitement-all-the-time become some big scary sign that maybe he's not The One and everything had snowballed from there into a giant glowing pustule of stress and volatile emotion. The book was a much-needed reality check. I wouldn't say that I agree with everything Gilbert says, or that it's the greatest book about thinking about marriage ever written (I'm sure it isn't), but it was one right thing for me at the right time.

And then there was the meeting. A whole bunch of strong, wise, smart women with more to say than just "ZOMG look at this picture of a cake I MUST HAVE IT!" It was amazing. Experience, advice, affirmation, all gave me just the perspective I needed that no, everything doesn't have to be perfect; I don't need to be glowing all the time just because I'm engaged. It was just the shot I needed to calm down and once again start to feel excited about this marriage and this wedding. All it took was feeling validated about my own insecurities to pull me right back into blushing-bride-to-be land. I guess it turns out that sometimes the best thing for a relationship is a bunch of strangers.

Facing Down Fear

Forever is a scary word. Like, really scary. Lately my mind has been a whirlwind of "I have to pick up the bathmat after him forever?" "I have to worry that he thinks I'm not thin enough forever?" "I have to try, unsuccessfully, to help him sort out his stats homework forever!?"

But being with A forever does not mean feeling like I do now forever. I'm a bit depressed--we just moved to the West Coast in January and I'm struggling to find my place here. So far my life here has revolved around A more than one should, since he's my only close friend who doesn't live a transcontinental flight away. I'm working on this, but it's slow, difficult, humbling process. In the meantime, I'm lonely, lack the perspective that friends can provide about such silly things as him forgetting to do the dishes, and it all makes me edgy and emotionally fragile.

This is not forever. Living in a new place is not forever. Being completely new to my job—to my career—is not forever. Having a horrendous, California-sized commute is not forever. A's PhD program is not forever. His semester (with the impossible stats class) is even shorter.

So yes, I will probably have to pick up the bathmat after him forever--or at least 'til death, but that's really my own personal forever. And many other household annoyances, I'm sure. But I'll learn to pick my battles and to remember that I'll be doing things that bug him just as much.

And he'll probably have his too-high standards for how thin is thin enough forever, but I'll relearn to be confident in my own body, to decide for myself what is healthy and what is worth sustaining, and to ignore the nagging worries about the judgments that he now knows to keep to himself.

There will be hard conversations, and we'll get better at having them. We'll learn to live together more comfortably. We'll grow with each other and become better distinguishers of which are the Big Deal Problems and which are the small annoyances best to ignore.

And the grad school will end; the new career and city will become the familiar career and city; there will even be more new careers and cities ahead. Things will get better, and they'll get worse. And we'll face these changes together, forever.

Hello.

That's how it all starts, isn't it?

"Hello."

Names are exchanged. And drinks. Phone numbers.

And all of a sudden, three years later, here I am thinking about vows.

Okay, I'm not really thinking about vows in a "what will I say" sense yet. But I'm thinking about commitment. A. and I were engaged in August of this year and are marrying in August of next. And there are so many emotions bouncing around in my head that I'm not sure how to sort them out. So here I am, in the probably false hope that if I spew a few into a keyboard and send them into the ether for anyone (but most likely no one) to see, I'll have myself more centered, calm, and settled by the time I have to figure out how to say, for all of my closest friends and family to witness, exactly what it is I want to commit to do for and with my partner for the rest of ever.

As so many brides-to-be do, I dove into the magazines and blogs full of pretty pictures of pretty dresses and pretty flowers and pretty shoes and every single pretty detail you can imagine. I have a creative streak—a currently gravely stunted creative streak—and imagining how I might craft my wedding to have just the colors and details to make everything perfect enthralls me.

But I've started to worry that in all of the daydreaming about the wedding, I haven't truly contemplated the marriage. Doubts creep through the shadows of my mind. What were once things-I-wasn't-thrilled-about are now things-I-have-to-live-with-forever. And so I come here to sort through my fears, my doubts, my excitement, stress, elation, despair—in a public but anonymous space, in the hopes that somebody will read and find value in my meandering thoughts, and that even the idea that somebody is reading will hold me accountable to keep writing.

So, hello, blogotubes. I hope to see you again soon.