About Me
When I was in high school, dating older guys was the cool thing to do. They had cars, they had jobs that supplied the money with which they would pay for dates and pretty things, they had cars, they were slightly more mature than guys who were (God forbid) still in high school, and they had cars. Also, every girl hoped that by dating an older guy, she would be dating someone experienced who would want to settle down, which loosely translates to giving her a nice, big diamond ring. High school girls are gold-diggers. So it wasn’t unusual for girls to become engaged while they were juniors and seniors – in some cases, even sophomores (but usually, that situation involved pregnancy).
It was always painfully obvious that I was not of the same breed as these girls. I was the girl who turned her nose up to what I considered an “underage engagement.” I was happy to just date…or, better yet, stay single; and I didn’t understand at all what the big deal was about being engaged. “So you get a ring. That’s it? You’re still boyfriend and girlfriend, but with a ring?” I would ask. Other girls would gawk and frown at me as if I had verbally attacked their God and say, in high-pitched voices, “No, that’s not it!” And I would patiently ask, “What else is there?” I received no answer, of course. What else was there, indeed. No one knew, not even those who were oh-so-blissfully engaged.
I continued through high school, having no serious relationships. Three months before graduation, I finally got curious and started seeing a guy who I’d met at my job at the local grocery store. Some considered it creepy that he was an unemployed twenty-six year old still living with his parents, but I never did give a damn about what others thought. My family and friends detested him (my mother still scrunches her face as she refers to him as “That Guy”); but despite his obvious flaws, he was the nicest guy I had ever met. I still stand firm on that. Fortunately, our month-long fling ended when his parents sent him to rehab to get over his addiction to marijuana. When the attempt failed and he told me I would always be second to his weed, we went our separate ways. My decision to leave had less to do with being in love and wanting to be first priority and more to do with my abhorrence of the smell. It was like rotten peanuts. He tried to stay in touch, but Smart-Me chose to ignore his phone calls, which was something I have always been proud of. Smart-Me doesn’t make too many appearances.
After I finished high school, I met a man who had just graduated college and was working as a substitute teacher/assistant football coach. We had a lot in common, got along great, but neither of us was ready for anything more complicated than pizza and a good movie. That only showed itself as an issue when I found out he was lying about his sleeping arrangements with other girls. Sharing has never gone over well with me; whether it is sharing my “boyfriend” or sharing an STD, I wanted nothing to do with it. And since this particular situation had the prospect of both of those things becoming future issues, I set him loose on the world and moved on with life.
Summer ended and college began. I spent four and a half months at West Liberty State College. That first semester was hell, but it was worth it. Of course, the only reason was that college was where I had the opportunity to make a subtle, albeit drunk, pass at my long-time crush (“long-time” may be greater than or equal to four years). While most of the people who knew us both had sort of expected/willed it to happen, it seemed like a strange match to me. He was everything I had never looked for in a man. He was smart, sober, and willing to commit. I was none of those things. Yet two point five years later, we somehow found ourselves engaged.
I never would have thought that being engaged would be such a pain in the ass…but it is. Mostly because of planning and because of the in between status. I thought all of those girls in high school were full of it when they said that being engaged would be different than dating, but they were right. Just not in the way they thought they were. It’s not magical. It’s not blissful. It’s a huge, seething pain in the rear. The first week or so it was OK, I guess. You get to feel like a loser as you call around talking to people you see once or twice a year. You happily announce that you’re engaged, receive congratulations, entertain them with your decreasingly-romantic “how he did it” story, and sit in awkward silence as you decide whether or not it would be rude to hang up immediately afterward. And just when you’re finished calling people, your mother calls you to remind you that you have other relatives who have not yet died and would probably like to hear the good news. After this is all over, you wonder what the point would be in putting an announcement in the paper, since everyone knows anyway; but you get talked into it and suddenly you’re posing for awkward pictures of you and your fiancée looking at each other with lovey-dovey expressions on your faces that would otherwise have made you gag.
After the first month or so, you contemplate eloping because the idea of standing in front of people and kissing in some awkward white dress is giving you heart palpitations. However, you press on, mostly because you know your family will never forgive you if they can’t be a part of “your special day” (oh, and every time someone calls it “your day” or “your special day,” you consider gouging their eyes out with a plastic spoon). Your relatives are suggesting dates and venues and themes and you begin to realize that no matter what “your special day” looks like, you’re still going to be married, so why spend more money than necessary? And whenever you voice this opinion, you get told that you should “have a better attitude about this” and your wishes go ignored until you find yourself at the end of a screaming rampage wondering why you’re covered in blood and Grandma isn’t breathing.
OK, so that last part doesn’t generally happen. However, I am attempting to keep that from becoming a potential complication. It’s not that I don’t want to get married or have a wedding…it’s just that I want nothing to do with the bullshit that goes with it. Since that it not a possibility, I am setting up this blog in order to keep myself sane throughout the process. At the same time, I hope it proves entertaining.
Disclaimer: This blog will be used for any venting, planning, ranting, listing, voodoo worshiping, picture-posting, and overall fun-having that relates directly or indirectly to the wedding. All images, stories, persons, and odors are property of me and shall not be used without permission. I will find you. Entries may be written in prose or as something that needs to be gotten out of the way quickly and, therefore, may make no sense. It all depends on how lazy I’m feeling. Some entries are an exaggeration written as a means of entertaining myself. (I have bolded that because some people have read this, called me, and said, “THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN!” Read the fine print, dude.) They are based on true events. I have been known to have a sick sense of humor. If you can’t handle it… well, I am not forcing you to read this.
