Day #4: Marriage: I Scored a Winner.

Most women I know expected to be married by the time they turn 30. I didn't. I wish I could say I mean that in a I'm-so-fiercely-independant, who-needs-a-dude-I-can-fix-it-my-damn-self kind of way. I don't.

What I mean is this: at twenty-something, when you have dated a million non-calling, unemployed, no-car-having, idiot, mamas boys who live like they rent the MTV beach house, you start thinking maybe you should reconsider your options.

Ironically, I met my future husband at 20...


Meet Mike:

I'm willing to bet most of you have already met Mike, and one of you actually is Mike (and if you haven't read my blog, Mike, you are in deep shit).

Mike is my husband, and he is awesome. I didn't realize marriage was going to be awesome. I thought it would be more like an episode of "Rosanne" or "Everybody Loves Raymond." You know, he would eff something up or fail to do something obvious, and I would bitch at him and he wouldn't get laid for a week, then he'd beg for forgiveness and I would reluctantly give it, but only if he would never do [insert failure of husbandry here] again.

Reality:

Mike leaves his laundry in the dryer. This is annyoing, so I kind of bitch at him, but it doesn't last long because after a glass of wine or two he begs for forgiveness, I give in, we hit the bedroom and he promises never to leave the laundry in the dryer ever again.

The next day the laundry is in the dryer.

Whatever. I give up, and I love him to0 much to really get particularly mad.

Here's why:

Last week I was a bridesmaid in my best friend's wedding. This was a giant wedding, so there were 10 bridesmaids (plus a junior bridesmaid and four flower girls, but that's neither here nor there). Mike is friends with all of these girls because we've all hung out plenty over the years, but this Saturday night, he wasn't just a husband, he was a hero.

So all us ladies get ready in the bridal suite at the hotel. After we're ready, we need to get our stuff out of the bridal suite, so I offer my room. Seven of us cram ourselves and our crenlin into an elevator and set off to the room.

I knock on the door. "Oh huuusband!" I say, in my 50s housewife voice.

No response. So I open the door, and there's Mike.

In his underwear.

Behind me are seven bridesmaids with somewhere to be, so I yell, "Bathroom!" and Mike dives for it just as seven women in matching champange and ivory satin, three-inch heels, full make-up and three cans worth of Aqua Net holding up our updos storm the room and litter the place with shoes, bags, brushes and sprays and leave -- as quickly as they came.

I imagine my husband standing in the middle of the hotel room -- which now looks backstage at NY Fashion week -- in his boxer briefs, wondering what the hell happened.

From that point on, he wasn't just my husband. He was every bridesmaid's husband. My Mike fetched drinks, held high-heels, snapped photos and toted handbags for any single bridesmaid who would let him.

And he looked wicked handsome doing it, I might add.

He then drove myself and three other tipsy bridesmaids back to the hotel, playing our favorite songs along the way. When we all got back to the hotel room, everyone was ready to ditch the dresses and change into comfy clothes before hitting the hotel bar.

Mike wasn't sure what to do when all the girls starting unzipping their dresses. So what does my amazing husband do?

He got into the closet and shut the door. Honest to god. The man was in the closet.

I'm sorry, ladies, he has no brothers, but should cloning become a real possibility, feel free to contact me. We can talk. I know I got a good one.

Day #3: Driving. Aggressively.

I know people who don't like to drive. I can't relate. I love driving. I love driving so much that I chose to forgo the traditional sit-on-a-beach-while-drinking-fruity-drinks honeymoon in favor of a five-week cross country road trip.

I believe my passion for driving is best expressed through my lead foot.

I haul ass. When I say "I haul ass" I don't mean "60mph in a 55." I mean, "Your car insurance rates go up when I am on the road." I mean, "Hitchhikers wave me along when I pull over to offer them a ride because they feel walking along a freeway is safer." I mean "I've been pulled over for driving so fast it was considered reckless driving."

Fact. It cost me $378 if you include the court fees.

Between August of 1996 and now I have been pulled over 23 times.

That's an average of [pause while I pull up computer calculator and figure this out] 1.64 conversations/year that started with "Do you know why I pulled you over today, ma'am?"

Before I started paying my own car insurance, it was also an average of 1.64 really uncomfortable and apolgetic conversations with my parents.

I always thought my aggressive driving tendancies were a feature of my youth. In college, I pictured myself as a 30-something driving along Huguenot Rd. on my way to work, and throwing my fist up in the air and griping -- ideally, in a voice reminiscent of Betty Davis in "Golden Girls" -- "Dagnabbit, those youngins' and their fast cars!" as a teenager driving 2 miles over the speed limit passed me on the right.

Well, I got pulled over last week so clearly that dream hasn't manifested.

I blame this partially on where I learned to drive (because why take personal responsibility when you can blame it on Washington D.C.?). You cannot be a wimpy driver on I495.

Pause. Correction: You can be a wimpy driver on I495. We call those people "The Cause of Traffic" and I wholly condone any honking or heckling directed at them.

You don't get on the Beltway for a Sunday drive. You don't get on there and slow down to stare at exit signs. You don't merge into one of the 11 lanes of traffic and sing a little ditty while you text your BFF and admire the tire debris.

You get on there and you are in pole position, people. You are pedal-to-the-floor, blinkers-optional, all-systems-go driving like you are about to have a baby next to the brake pedal.

And if you aren't, you're just pissing me off.

Story:

So I'm driving to the beach this summer and the road is (not suprisingly) littered with minivans wearing plastic storage container hats that must seriously increase their drag because these bad boys are going slow.

The roads to the beach are primarily four lanes across, two in each direction. Inevitably, I am locked in some kind of Drag Race from Another Dimension in which the strategy is go as slowly as possible to the final destination.

And its a dead heat.

I find myself narratoring the event like a race announcer:

And the Chrysler Town and Country begins to pull away! The driver of the Plymouth Voyager must have had to hand out snack packs to the backseat passengers! Oh, wait! But here comes the Voyager ... she's closing in! She's been gaining momentum ever since little Bobby claimed he had to go wee-wee...

In these moments, as I sit in my Subaru amidst the cornfields and WalMarts, that I imagine myself able to move around the cars on the road like apps on my iPhone. Just press the car, hold, and then **wiggle wiggle** and suddenly the minivan is at my command. Then I could **swish to the left** and toss the minivan off my homescreen [road], thrust my lead foot to the floor and resume pole position.

Until the world comes around to my colorful brand of driving, I'll attempt to sit contentedly behind the slowskies. In the mean time, I suggest you prepare yourself:

Check to make sure you are well-insured and stay the hell out of my way.

Day #2: Fitness Failure

Last year, I ran a half marathon. For those of you who know me (I imagine that's everyone reading this blog) this may seem pretty unbelievable. If you knew me in elementary school, you would know that I was the one student in my class of 15 eighth graders who failed to pass the Presidential Physical Fitness Challenge because I couldn't run a mile in under 20 minutes.

Twenty minutes.

Let me put this in perspective for my fellow n0n-excercisers:

You can probably complete a mile in less than 20 minutes even if you do the whole damn thing on one leg. And run backwards for one fifth of it. And have a rope tied to you dragging a wagon full of small children telling you "YOU SUCK!"

Which is pretty much the way I ran my mile in the eighth grade. Not the wagon part. Or the one leg part. Just the other people yelling at me part.

Picture it:

I am 13. I am already of sasquatchian height and have a rear-end with its own zip code (seriously, sometimes I left that ass in other rooms and had to remember to go back and get it). I had hair cut not disimilar to Johnathan Brandis circa 1992 (think: his deeply thought provoking work Ladybugs):

I am wearing hot pink (because it was 1992. duh.) elastic waistband shorts with matching slouchy socks and tee shirt. I am "running" around the back parking lot of St. John the Evangelist Church in 100 degree heat, sweating like a whore in church.

And I am alone. Not metaphorically -- literally. Every single one of my classmates has long since finished the mile and they are standing around impatiently, hands on hips, arms crossed, PE teacher with his too-short shorts holding a (at this juncture, totally pointless) stopwatch -- all staring at me as I go around and around and...

That makes it sound like I went "around" quickly. I did not.

The black asphalt is slick from the mirages created by the heat. I try to focus on the appearance of water ahead. But all I can hear is...

"GOD! Hurry up already!"

"Can we go in now? I mean, she already lost."

Yes, I had lost. And this memory has haunted me well into my adulthood, and spurned my dreams of becoming...

An athlete.

Yes, I hoped I might become a runner and so, with a wedding on the horizon last year, I decided to sign myself up for a half marathon and train.

I ran and I trained and I went to the half marathon and I did it! I ran 13.1 miles!

Please see evidence below:

Admittedly, "run" may be a strong word to describe how I completed the last 5 miles, but that's neither here nor there.

After the half marathon (and after the wedding) I had grand ambitions to continue this healthy lifestyle -- to never give it up -- to stay committed to my passion.

Total miles run since half marathon: 2.

This is because as a wedding gift I recieved a box wrapped in white paper and tied with a beautiful bow. Inside was a giant heap of demotivation and it was the genesis of the 20lbs I have successfully added to my physique over the last year.

Recently, I tried to return to fitness. However, since I am broke (see previous post) I decided to try the free exercise videos on OnDemand. It was here that I met Cindy, my trainer for Belly Bulge Blast (name is real -- I could not make that up).

Cindy likes to teach me a move and then do that move repeatedly, only, on, like, crack.

Cindy: Move to the left!

Me: [Moves to the right] Shit!

Cindy: Now step back and squat!

Me: [Steps forward and stands up] Shit!

Cindy: You can do it!

Me: [Too busy panting to speak].

Cindy: Pick it up now!

Me: [Dying]

Cindy: One more set! A little faster now!

Me: [Dying and reaching].

Cindy: You can do it!

[Click].

Me: No I can't.

Goodbye Cindy. I'll take the eighth graders on the asphalt.

Day #1. Money: Where the hell is mine?

Once upon a time, in a land called College, a young girl named Beth dutifully attended classes, wrote papers with all the diligence expected of her Catholic upbringing and impressed her professors in class with her insight and motivation.


And all the the Adults in this land called College told her that these exercises and courses would prepare her for a land called Reality, where people with degrees from College would be lavished with beautiful gold coins -- more, said Adults, than those who never lived in the land called College.


One day Beth and all her friends left college. Adults gave them good luck gold coins in Hallmark greeting cards and Beth and her friends went to the land called Reality.



Beth found a job in Reality. It did not utilize a single one of the skills she had learned in the land of College, but she stayed positive, because she believed the job would bring the magical gold coins the Adults spoke of.



And I was positive. Until I found out that a manager at McDonald's makes the same salary I do.


Seriously.



I have clearly followed the wrong career path.


Now, I don't want to belabor the obvious because I know everybody is suffering from the economic meltdown our country is experiencing right now. However, I do want to stress an important point:


I was broke before the meltdown. Now I am just more broke.


Remember when we were young and we dreamed of things like stock portfolios (we didn't know what they were, we just knew people with money had them) and expendable income and retirement accounts? Remember that?


Story:



When I started teaching in Richmond, I did something "responsible" and "adult" and opened a 401k. I chunk of my potential beer and shoe money now goes into said 401k in the hopes that when I'm too old to enjoy beer and heels, I will be able to afford them anyway.


I now recieve quarterly (or something) account statements. These are replete with charts, and projections, and estimations and deductions and transfers...


All of which I ignore because I have not one clue what they hell they mean. Don't lie. You don't either.



The other day I found a new one sitting in the stack of mail littering the kitchen counter. I cut directly to the account balance.



I thought they had mailed me a statement for a seven-year-old's savings account.



Truly, I think I had more money in the bank immediately following my First Communion.


However, I am going to give credit where credit is due and pat myself on the back for at least opening the damn thing.


Because when I'm 65, I'm buying myself some PBR in a can and a pair of orthopedic shoes and languishing atop my 12 gold coins on my Craftmatic Adjustable Bed:

18 Days and Counting...

On August 23rd I will turn 30.

The last person I mentioned this to said "Oh god! Please don't talk about it! I don't want to think about turning 30!"

Why the hell not? Its inevitable. You will age. You will do so for 30 years, barring any animal maulings, natural disasters, or plagues that could potentially put the kabosh on, you know, living.

I want to state right off that I am not depressed and/or stressed about turning 30. In fact, I embrace 30. Its not quite as sweet as 21, but its definately a milestone. A crossing-of-the-threshold, turning-of-the-corner, shove into adulthood.

I feel like I am a grown up.

What is most intriguing to me about turning 30 is what I thought 30 would look like when I was, say, 20. Ahhhhh, youth. Youth, you're cute. You are so idealistic and hopeful and ambitous....

You were not accurate, Youth. Not accurate at all.

Hence, this blog. I'd like to take a fully self-indulgent moment (Read: 18 days) to reflect on all the idealistic dreams that I (and you) had before we realized that our parents weren't bullshitting when they said the "real world" isn't quite what you think it is.