Dear Molly, September 24, 2007

I’m writing this on Monday afternoon, even though – by penalty of death – I am not allowed to post it until Monday evening, at the earliest.

I just got off the phone with Molly. Yes that Molly. It was our very first phone call (her voice is adorable) but the significance of that was greatly overshadowed by the fact that it was the phone call. The omigod-find-a-quiet-corner-in-the-office-and-SQUEE phone call.

Because – as I’m assuming you already know – girlfriend has officially joined the bride-to-be club. And, judging from the excitement bubbling up inside of me to the point that I’m shaking a little bit as I write this, I couldn’t be happier.

So, a letter to the bride-to-be, courtesy of a slightly more seasoned bride-to-be:

Dear Molly,

First of all, I told you it would happen soon. In fact, very recently you emailed me about trying on my ring when we finally meet up and I said “well, hopefully by the time we meet, we’ll be able to swap rings.” And lo, it will be so.

In fact, BossMike and I were emailing about you getting engaged just an hour or so before you called us to tell us the awesome news. We’re clearly psychic. Or something.

I’m so glad that you weren’t expecting it, that you thought it was just going to be “date day” and not “getting engaged day” because a proposal is possibly the best surprise in the universe, short of finding out that chocolate chip cookies are calorie-free.

Enjoy these next few weeks. Bask in that recently engaged glow. As much as it will kill you – you, with the overstuffed wedding binder because you are just so adorable and also, clearly, ahead of the game – show some restraint when it comes to the planning. That’s what a friend of mine told me and she was absolutely right. The rest of your engagement period will be about the planning. This first part is only about pure, unadulterated adoration for each other and the pure, unadulterated adoration that your friends and family (including me, and the rest of the blog world) have for you.

Take extra long walks with your future husband (GAH! SQUEE!) and Kodiak and discuss the wedding. Flip through some wedding magazines (Hi Martha Stewart? It’s Clink. I worship you. Please welcome Molly to the club). Send me thousand word emails about how it feels to be engaged. (There’s no better audience for a recently engaged girl than a recently engaged girl.)

Also, be prepared for your blog fodder to go from “voluminous” to “extremely, extremely abundant.” And that’s okay. I thought that blogging about my wedding plans would bore most readers to tears but it seems to be something everyone can relate to, engaged or not. Plus it’s so good to put stuff out there and get feedback from this awesome community of awesome people who clearly adore you and are going to read every wedding-related word (myself included).

Plus, hi, free advice. In fact, I was just going to blog about whether or not chocolate brown bridesmaids’ dresses would clash with black tuxes (readers?).

I can’t really put into words how thrilled I am for you. I’ve heard that you’re not supposed to say ‘congratulations’ to the bride because it’s akin to saying “well done, you’ve snagged yourself a man.” But you know what? You have snagged yourself a man. And he’s gorgeous and he treats you like gold and you are so in love with each other and you have that something that makes a couple a great couple and CONGRATULATIONS ON THAT.

I’ve told you many times that I wanted us to be able to plan our weddings together. You’re one of the people that I regularly bounce ideas off of and now I’m ecstatic that I can bounce ‘em right back at you (quite like the game of tennis, minus the sweat).

I look forward to reading and hearing about your wedding planning journey. I know that you will handle it with the humor, poise and enthusiasm that has come to define you as a person.

I heart you very much,

Clink

TGIF. September 7, 2007

It’s Friday. FRI-DAY. (Don’t you think that Friday should be FRYday and we should all be required to eat French fries? That, my friends, is a world I would like to live in.)
 
It’s so sunny and beautiful in New York, the type of weather that makes you want to kiss the shiny buildings and splash around in the Hudson and pat yourself on the back for choosing to live here.
 
Today’s the first day that I am the boss as my boss is out of town and guess what, bosses get asked a lot of questions. I’ve had to pause about five times while writing this to answer questions and it should make me feel powerful and important but really I just want to say “um, I’m writing a blog post here, can it wait? Like five minutes? Until after I’ve had my coffee? At the very least?”
 
Sigh. This boss thing ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
 
This weekend M and I are driving up to New Hampshire (do you know that one of my major weaknesses is geography? Well it is. I didn’t know West Virginia was a state until I was in college. COLLEGE. I thought it was, um, just the western part of Virginia. Feel free to throw things like stones or tomatoes at me). I don’t really know where New Hampshire is, is my point, but I’m excited to go there. Even if the forecast calls for ninety degree weather AND intermittent thunder storms.
 
M’s friends from college live up there – in a huge house, the mortgage for which is less than we pay in rent – and they’re throwing a barbeque for the three couples in the group who have recently gotten engaged. I’m excited. Anywhere that allows me to play the bride card with reckless abandon is somewhere I want to be.
 
Speaking of that bride card, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the details of the wedding. The little things that will make it stand out. Lately, my focus has been on favors.
 
Now, I’ve received enough crappy frames and clusters of Jordan almonds to know that I want something different. I don’t want people to feel gypped. I want them to leave with a small token of our appreciation for not only celebrating with us, but for navigating New York City and paying New York City hotel and parking prices to do so. And also, for giving us gobs of money.
 
Initially I thought of a candy buffet, inspired by Martha Stewart (when you’re planning a wedding, she is your goddess no matter how you felt about her before the wedding or how you’ll feel about her after). Guests would receive (adorable! Personalized!) boxes which they could fill with a variety of candy.
 
But M and I are less candy people than we are cookie people. We’ll be all “meh” at the idea of a Snickers but present us with a few dozen chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven and you will barely have any left once we get through with them.
 
So now I’m thinking, cookie buffet. And now I’m also thinking, put my family to work. The women I’m related to are fabulous bakers and each of them has a specialty. I want to present each of their specialties on a gorgeous platter with a frame that says Aunt Tia’s Famous Blackbottoms or Yiayia (that’s grandma, in Greek) Sofia’s Incomparable Greek Sugar Cookies. It just feels more personal, more special. I may even have to make some of my delicious homemade Oreos.
 
I don’t know. How boring is that? I just wrote about FAVORS. Omigod. I tried for a while to ixnay the eddingway stuff but, yeah, it creeps back every now and again and I am powerless against it. (*Pulls out Future Bride card, waves it around, shrugs*)
 
If any of you have received any inspired favors – or have been to a wedding with a great detail, such as a basket of flip flops on the dance floor so that women can abandon their heels and shake their thangs comfortably – I would, of course, love to hear about it.
 
So I can steal all the ideas and pass them off as my own, MWAHAHAHA.

Fine China. August 28, 2007

I whined as we walked in. 
 
“Do we really need it? Are we ever going to use it? It’s just so expensive.” 
 
My mom, who has been hearing me whine for twenty-five years, ignored me. In true Clink’s Mom fashion, she alerted a sales assistant, had a table set with four different types of china that she thought I would like, picked out table linens to complement each setting and had already entered the vital information to jump start my Bloomingdales registry. 
 
All before I got back from the in-store café, where I went to get a lemonade.  
 
The saleswoman – older, the type who proudly announces that she polishes her silverware on a regular schedule, who refers to brides as “the girls,” as in, “all the girls are doing silver instead of gold these days” – encouraged me to sit down at each place setting. 
 
“Pretend to sip some coffee. Pretend there is lovely roast chicken on your plate. Envision how this will look in your home. This is what your guests will see when they sit down at your table.” 
 
My home? Oh, you mean my 800 square foot apartment with room for four at the dining table, and even that’s pushing it? My guests? Oh, you mean all those people who are also in their twenties who eat off of paper plates and drink wine out of paper cups because we’re all too lazy to do dishes? What do I want them to envision? And, um, I don’t even know how to make roast chicken. 
 
I sat down at each setting anyway.  
 
Like goldilocks, the first two were all wrong. One was too formal – china that would look at home in a palace, circa Henry VIII. The other – even though it was Kate Spade, even thought it was polka dotted and I love polka dots – wasn’t right. I can’t really articulate why. It felt too girly, too whimsical, too single-in-the-city and not at all “we are a couple, here are our dishes, enjoy your roast chicken.” 
 
The third one, however. Well, there was something different about it. Maybe it was the fact that it was Vera Wang and I’ve always felt that if I were a designer, much of my stuff would look like hers. Maybe it was the fact that it was modern, but not in-your-face-look-how-fashion-forward-we-are modern. Maybe it was the fact that, um, yeah, I could actually picture my guests sitting down to a table set with that china. That I could actually envision loving it for many, many years. Plus, I’m really into light pink and silver/gray and my mom – because she is my mom, because she has impeccable taste – chose very light pink placemats and napkins to accompany the silver/gray china.  
 
I felt, in that moment, that something snapped. Up until then, this whole wedding thing has felt a bit like pretend. Everything having to do with weddings feels is so surreal. Trust me. Like some sort of real-life fantasy game that M and I play to pass the time. For example: writing checks – deposit checks – that are larger than my paycheck just feels like we’re moving around Monopoly money. It’s like we’re playing The Sims: Wedding Edition. 
 
But the china. Who knew it would be the china? The china I was so adamantly against (“Seventy-five dollars! For a plate!”) turned out to be the one thing that made me feel like, oh, hey this is it. You are becoming an adult. You will have fine china that you serve to your guests with wine other than, you know, Yellowtail, during dinner parties where there will witty conversation and intellectual debate.  
 
Or, you know, an analysis of Rock of Love. Whatever. 
 
I’m actually excited about the damn china. I still think it is unbelievably expensive and I’m still a bit creeped out about this whole registry thing but, damn, it’s beautiful and damn, I can’t wait to throw a dinner party just so I can whip it out and stare longingly at how beautiful it is. 
 
I just have to learn how to make roast chicken first.

Out-Brided. August 22, 2007

I thought I was doing pretty well. If Bride-to-Be were a class, I’d surely be earning at least a B+, if not an A. I mean, it’s eleven months from our wedding and already M and I have secured the church, the reception site, the registry, the bridal party and the band. Not bad, right? I mean, I should probably start thinking more seriously about dresses and we do have to get all that stuff to the church that we’ve been too lazy to compile and my diet has been more like a non-diet and damn it I had an egg and cheese sandwich for breakfast today, but hey. All in all, I’m proud of us. Or, at least I was.  
 
Then I talked to M’s friend from college, Emma, who is getting married a month after us. 
 
Emma not only has everything that we have but she also has her dress, and her invitations, and her bridesmaids dresses and her florist and an appointment for her first hair trial in just a few weeks. 
 
But that’s not even the most disturbing part. I mean, some people are overachievers and I’m okay with not being one. (Besides, the overachievers never had dates in high school.) 
 
The most disturbing part is that, in order to get in shape for her wedding (please note: this woman is a size two, on a fat day), Emma wakes up at four thirty in the morning to go to the gym. That’s 4:30. A.M. 
 
It’s okay, I’ll wait for a few moments while you pick yourself up off the floor, no worries. 
 
You back? Ok good. 
 
Because FOUR THIRTY IN THE MORNING? FOUR FUCKING THIRTY? IS SHE KIDDING WITH THAT? I WAKE UP FOUR HOURS AFTER FOUR THIRTY IN THE DAMN MORNING AND I THINK THAT’S TOO EARLY TO DO ANYTHING, LET ALONE GO TO THE GYM. 
 
In a way, I admire her dedication. She (despite being a size two, did I mention that?) wants to look good on her wedding day, so she’s making sure that she does.  
 
On the other hand, FOUR THIRTY? IN THE DAMN MORNING? (I’m a little afraid that all of you will respond to this post with “yeah, uh, duh Clink, we all go to the gym at four thirty in the morning, we’re part of an army of people slipping into gym clothes at four thirty in the morning, you hadn’t heard, you fat ass you?”)  
 
I’m kind of inspired. I’ve never been a competitive person but hearing that kind of got my juices flowing. She’s out-briding me at the moment, but it’s still early, and that doesn’t mean I can’t pull a come-from-behind victory. Ok, I know this isn’t a head-to-head challenge for who can be the hotter bride and have the better wedding, but anything that motivates me to get turn off The Hills, put down the remote and go to the gym, is welcomed.
 
Except, I plan to be going at six-thirty in the evening because REALLY? FOUR FUCKING THIRTY?

Oh, and a job-related non-update: I haven’t heard yet and I feel so sick, down to the very core of my stomach, about that. I am literally staring at my phone, urging it to ring out of SHEER WILL. One of my references emailed to tell me that she gave maybe-future-boss a stellar recommendation, so that’s all I have to go on right now but GOOD FUCKING LORD this is so painful. I need some wine.

V.I.B. August 17, 2007

I went to a bridal expo last night. 
 
I did not seek out the bridal expo. As with all things that one should be wary of in life, the bridal expo aggressively sought me out via emails from some “future bride” list that I apparently stumbled onto (The Knot, I blame you) and phone calls from one of M’s friends – a fellow bride – who heard a rumor about “free drinks” and “lots of swag” and thus convinced me to attend.  
 
I could sum up the experience by saying this: we walked in at 6:37pm and walked out at 7:28pm and were sitting in a bar, two rounds each in front of us, by 7:36pm. I exaggerate not.
 
The minute I was handed my V.I.B. sticker (that’s Very Important Bride, duh), I knew I should’ve turned around and walked out. However – as I am very, very good at ignoring my gut instincts (it’s an art, really) – I did not. And before I knew it, BrideFriend and I were quickly escorted from the peaceful lobby of the hotel into a ballroom that… 
 
Well, there’s no good way to explain it. The best picture I can paint is this: you know when you’re walking through a department store to get to the rest of the mall? And inevitably you have to walk through the cosmetics section, because the cosmetics section is usually the part that connects the department store to the rest of the mall? And suddenly you go into ninja mode as you are forced to dodge aging women who took their make-up cues from a pastel clown as they try and spritz you with “this season’s hottest scent”?
 
Yeah, it’s kind of like that. Times five hundred. Except, instead of perfume, you are bombarded with pamphlets (tuxedos! Limos! Cake! Zoom tooth whitening system?) and it’s kind of like a casino in that it is designed to keep you in at all costs. And there is NO BAR, as we found out after a few laps around the perimeter. We even eventually asked one of the women running the expo about, you know, whether there was any place to get a glass of wine or eleventy thousand and she looked at us as if we had just asked if we could eat her arm, as we hadn’t had lunch and were kind of hungry…that’s how horrified. 
 
There were brides everywhere: fat brides, skinny brides, young brides, old brides. And all of them were pushing and pulling and basically acting the way you expect people to act during a riot or a Barney’s warehouse sale.  
 
“This is, like, our Bridal Class of ’08,” BrideFriend said to me, wide-eyed, as we got jostled near the Fortunoff booth. 
 
“I weep for the future.”  
 
Ultimately, we did what any self-respecting anti-brides with slight claustrophobia would do: we quickly hit up all the tables that were handing out free gifts (I now have enough Redken hair products to keep an entire southern sorority coiffed for two semesters) and then we got some cake (delicious! Though when is cake not delicious, I ask you? Or am I just very liberal with how I feel about cake?) and then we stood awkwardly against a wall while waiting for the bridal fashion show – the “highlight” of the evening - to begin. 
 
“So. Um. Yeah, this fashion show should be, um, interesting and, um, I’ve never really been that into David’s Bridal but, um, I hear they have good bargains and…” 
 
“Do you want to leave?” 
 
“I thought you’d never ask.” 
 
We ran out of the ballroom like we were being chased, which we probably were, because those tuxedo guys were aggressive. We made a beeline for the first bar, even though we happened to be in Times Square, threw our 547 (approximate) bags in a booth and begged the server to bring us drinks (and fried food, natch) as fast as he possibly could.
 
I was overstimulated for the rest of the night, unable to focus on even The Fashionista Diaries or Big Brother (that’s when you know its bad). I know that this all sounds dramatic – I mean, it was a glorified trade show for brides, no one should have left feeling like they’d just been through a warzone – but for someone who values her personal space and her unbruised skin and the fact that no means no (I’m looking at you, tuxedo guys), it was kind of a traumatic experience. 
 
However, as I emailed to BrideFriend this morning, we may never be the same, but at least we got some free cake out of it.  

Registered. August 8, 2007

I resisted registering for a while. Something about it just seemed so inorganic – choosing things to have other people buy for you. I mean, ten year old Clink would’ve been all about it, but twenty-five year old Clink was a bit hesitant.  
 
Besides, I’m Greek and therefore ethnic: it’s all about money in an envelope. 
 
But then people, mostly non-Greek people, started asking. “We want to get you an engagement gift, where are you registered?”  
 
So, Monday night, M and I curled up in bed with his new MacBook (codename: Albino Baby) and got to work. 
 
Rather, I got to work and M watched ESPN and periodically commented, when asked, about whether he liked the cake stand with or without the glass dome (“What kind of cake are we talking about?” “OmiGOD, nevermind.”) 
 
After hours (literally, hours) spent on www.potterybarn.com and www.bedbathandbeyond.com, I was spent. And also, excited. Because I had cobbled together (with some help from the fiance) what our future is going to look like: the Emma collection of dishes in our cabinets, a silver KitchenAid stand mixer on our countertop, high thread count sheets on which our children will be conceived (that was one way to get M to participate in the bedding discussion: “We will be having sex on these so I’d like your input, please.”)  
 
Plus, being an amateur baker (currently an abstinent baker as HELLO MY THIGHS ARE NOT GETTING ANY SKINNER AND IT IS LESS THAN A YEAR UNTIL MY WEDDING), I got to pick out various bakeware to pad my collection (I may or may not ever make mini-quiche or mini-tarts but DAMN it I want the mini-quiche/tart pans, just in case).  
 
But therein lays the problem. When you’re picking out things that will ultimately go on someone else’s tab, it’s easy to choose something you don’t really want or need. Like the ice cream/sorbet maker I initially added to the registry because really, Clink? You’re actually going to mix ingredients and wait for them to freeze instead of walking your ass down to the bodega to get a carton of Ben and Jerry’s Phish food? REALLY?  
 
(I took the ice cream maker off.) 
 
Also, I’m nervous about picking things out and still liking them in a year. I am notoriously indecisive (I am a Libra, after all) and I’m afraid that once the gifts start rolling in I’m going to look at the plates/bowls/wine glasses and wrinkle my nose and ask M to remove them from my sight because what the hell was I thinking? 
 
But, for now, I’m feeling confident in my choices. I’m feeling confident in having chosen a wide array of stuff to segue M and I into being a married couple, complete with matching table settings and serving trays and enough pots that we may actually be inspired to cook every once in a while.  
 
It’s weird. But a good weird. A we’re-getting-married good weird.

BrideFriends July 30, 2007

It probably wasn’t the best idea for me to watch Father of the Bride on Saturday morning considering I was a day away from my period and therefore highly emotional and therefore I sobbed throughout the whole thing. 
 
Like, start to finish. Like, not even an exaggeration. Like, hi, could we get some crazy pills over here? Thanks.  
 
*** 
 
Last night, M and I went out for Mexican (diet? I do not know this diet of which you speak) with two other couples, both engaged.  
 
The sound from the female end of the table can only be described as squawking. Get three brides to be (October ’07, July ’08, September ’0 together in the same place and they will not stop talking for the duration of the meal, only stopping to shovel bites of food when another bride is discussing the roughest part of her wedding planning thus far: the color scheme (“wait, you can have three colors? My world just changed.”)  
 
The truth is, there couldn’t be three more different brides planning three more different weddings. The first child in me feels compelled to make a list: 
 
Bride A: Early thirties, lives at home, from a very wealthy and well-connected family. Is planning what can only be described as a Platinum Wedding. Seriously, people. There’s no way to put this into words except to say that their engagement party was akin to most people’s weddings, with a cocktail hour, a sit-down dinner, a band, a Viennese hour and 200 people. The wedding will be close to 400 people and will feature, amongst other things, an 11-piece orchestra and breakfast served at 1am. BREAKFAST. As in, they are feeding us at the cocktail hour, feeding us at the dinner, feeding us at the Viennese hour and then FEEDING US BREAKFAST. The rock on the bride’s finger is only slightly smaller than your average baseball and they are taking a three-week honeymoon across the world, a “gift” from the bride’s parents (because the “gift” of the wedding and the “gift” of buying them a home clearly wasn’t enough). I’m not bitter or jealous, as it’s not anything I would want for myself (do you even know 400 people? I do not know 400 people). I’m just in awe that something like this is occurring outside of the movies. 
 
Bride B: Me! You know all about my wedding, clearly. But, to put it into context, here are some quick stats: 175 people, held at an elegant, modern loft in Manhattan; very simple and clean – from the centerpieces to the bridesmaids’ dresses; a city wedding through and through for which stunning views, a New York feel and great food and drinks are of the highest priority.  
 
Bride C: Late twenties, very independent, never really thought she’d get married. Refuses to adhere to tradition (might have a pink dress!), wants something very simple and casual. Is currently planning a garden party on an estate in Massachusetts and wants to keep things as low-key as possible. Could not stress enough just how non-opulent she wants it to be; is considering serving barbeque.  
 
See? Different. And yet, when you’re getting married, it doesn’t matter how different your visions are. You are bound because you are women and you are planning a wedding and that is enough to make you fast friends. I know each of these women through M, one is the future wife of his friend from college and the other bride is his friend. I’ve met them both on multiple occasions and have always enjoyed their company.  
 
However, last night was something different. We crossed the line from “friendly” to “friends.” BrideFriends.These are people who actually listen and care when I discuss whether or not pink and brown bridesmaid dresses will clash with black tuxes. These are people I actually take seriously as we debate the merits of a platinum band versus white gold. These are people who can relate when I talk about my seven bridesmaids and how I’m considering adding an eighth.  
 
One of them even admitted to weeping over Father of the Bride, which is proof that being around these new BrideFriends makes me feel less crazy. No easy feat, clearly.

The Reception Site. July 23, 2007

I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a place, except for maybe London or Greece. But even then, it was London and Greece collectively, not a specific location therein. 

They said that this was how I’d feel when I tried on the wedding dress. They said that I’d just know that it was right and that the knowing would bring me to tears.  

Except, it wasn’t the wedding dress. At least, not yet. It was the reception site. 

We went back on Sunday, brought my mom’s best friend who has a sharp eye for design. I cried again. A fellow future bride handed me a tissue and said, “I thought I loved this place but hell, it brought you to tears.” “Twice!” my mom chimed in. 

“I just love it here.” I had to stop myself from twirling around on the middle of the dance floor.  

It was everything I envisioned when I envisioned a place to throw the damn awesomest party of my life: loft-like and modern with a fabulous view. I can’t wait to shape it into something that’s mine and M’s. Something ours, against that stunning backdrop. 

Oh, you want to see for yourself?

Operation: Buff Bride July 23, 2007

I wasn’t going to post today but fuck those french fries. They no longer deserve to sit there at the top of the blog and tempt me, all “look at me in all my fried delicious glory, I would taste so awesome in your mouth.” Which, they would. But they wouldn’t look so awesome on my ass, which is the whole point. 

Today officially begins Operation: Buff Bride. There’s no more fooling around. No more “I want Mr. Softee!” or “yeah, I’ll order Mexican food with you, Roommate” or “can I have the chicken parm, please?” There’s no more eating like I’m a 90 pound refugee who has been living on berries and twigs for the better part of a year and needs to put on weight – stat.  

I will now forget that Chipotle exists one block from my new office (mostly by chanting to myself while rocking back and forth “Chipotle does not exist. Chipotle does not exist.”) I will now forget how delicious things that are fried or covered in frosting taste. I will now forget that there are unhealthy options out there. In Clink’s world, only vegetables and fruits and lean proteins exist. Oh, and 90-calorie Special K bars because hi, they’re awesome, and only 90 calories. 

It hit me yesterday, while sitting in church. (No, the white light of God did not come down, strike me and call me a fat ass in the middle of the service. Though, that would probably whip me into shape – hey God, are you there? It’s me Clink.)  

It’s the church where I will get married. One year and two days from today, I will walk down that aisle in a white (hi, unforgiving!) dress and I will marry Mr. Awesome and it will be glorious. It will, however, be even more glorious if I am svelte and confident. 

The church is perfect – tucked away on a quiet Manhattan street, with a beautiful garden and a down-to-earth priest who agreed to do the ceremony in English because he wants M and I to “understand what you’re getting into.”  

My mom and my grandmother and my second mother (my mom’s best friend) came into the city yesterday so that we could attend a service, get a feel for the church, meet the priest and – mainly – make sure it was air-conditioned.  

I’m not a church-goer. I have a complicated relationship with religion, especially a religion that dictates that I am not allowed to cross my legs because it is offensive to God. However, I felt warm the minute I walked in. The people, the church itself, the location – it all felt right. Felt like the perfect place to begin a marriage. I can’t wait to bring M there. 

I also can’t wait to watch the weight just fall off (because that’s how it will happen, right? All quick and easy-like?). My sister, who has always been slim, has gotten down to a size that doesn’t really exist because doesn’t zero essentially mean air? Nothing? Anyway, she looks great. And she feels great. She’s working out all the time and eating smaller portions and essentially doing what they tell you to do in lieu of the quick-fixes because hey! The quick-fixes and crash diets don’t work!  

I want to look and feel great – especially on my wedding day. I don’t want to be covering up or hiding or posing a certain way so my arms look thinner. I want to feel comfortable from every angle. I want my only physical concern to be my hair and my make-up and whether or not I break out in hives like I did before my senior prom.  

So, Operation: Buff Bride. It’s, almost, a year before the big day which means there’s plenty of time for me to do it right. I don’t have to starve myself like I did before Vegas. I’m going to see if there’s some truth to this “eat right and exercise” thing.

And, fear not, I’m sure I’ll be posting photos (from the nose down!) of my progress. Bet you can’t wait to see my guns, eh? Because, oh, THERE WILL BE GUNS! (But lovely, feminine guns!)

Update: Y’all, there is another page on the blog, where I will be documenting everything I put in my mouth from now until the wedding. Seriously. I need to be accountable to someone and who better than my awesome readers? Feel free to start your own. This could be Operation: Hot Bloggers or something like that. Besides, I need the damn support. Lord knows my willpower is about as strong as a piece of Scotch tape.

Last First Kiss. July 10, 2007

Men are traditionally supposed to be the ones with the issues about settling down. 
 
Not that I’m having issues. There are no issues. I’m diving headfirst into death do us part, without a moment’s hesitation, without any thought to how cold or deep the water might be. There is no second-guessing because on every level - head, heart and wherever the hell instinct resides - I know that this is right. 
 
There are, however, fleeting thoughts. They arrive apropos of nothing and leave just as quickly and unceremoniously as they came. 
 
Thoughts about how I’ll never go on another first date. Or have another first kiss. Or meet someone and hope that he calls. Those firsts are now lasts.  
 
Don’t judge me. Yeah, you. I know you’re about to. “Well, if she wants more first kisses then she shouldn’t be getting married, stupid whore.”  
 
I’m not saying I want more first kisses. I’m just saying it’s an odd feeling when you realize that you’ve had your last first kiss. Not good, not bad, not ominous or disappointing. Just…odd.
 
I went home on Friday night and ended up going out with a few of my friends from high school, including my high school ex-boyfriend. If you had asked me five years ago, I would’ve told you that I thought I’d end up with him. You know, as soon as he got his act together. As soon as he moved into a place of his own. As soon as he realized that I was the one that got away. 
 
It never happened - him getting his act together. And, while I was patiently waiting, dating but not committing, certain that every conversation or hook-up with him would lead to a confession that he wanted to be with me - I met M. And my world was turned upside down. And my hopes about High School Ex were exposed for the unrealistic daydreams of a single girl that they ultimately were. 
 
However, it was weird - standing there with High School Ex - knowing that we’d never have another hook-up or late night conversation about the state of our fragile and vague union. It seems like a weird thing to even notice, I know, but - aside from the past two years that I’ve been with M - those hook-ups and conversations were fairly consistent. Those hook-ups and conversations were what I hoped would constitute the foundation of a relationship one day.  
 
To think of all that effort I put in to making things work with High School Ex - deposits in a relationship bank account that was - and never will be - cashed. It’s funny how meeting one person can shatter all of your future plans, spin you around and send you off in a direction you never knew existed.   
 
I’m probably not articulating this as best as I possibly could. Some of you might misunderstand and take it the wrong way. I’m not a good enough writer to accurately describe how it feels to be deliriously in love and happy and sure but, at the same time, slightly taken aback when you realize the magnitude of the direction in which you are heading. When you realize that who you were is no longer who you are. When you are hammering the final nail in the coffin of the single and dating version of yourself, the person who couldn’t possibly imagine a future so bright she has to wear shades. The person who was certain it would all work out differently.
 
Just know that, as I send that version of myself six feet under and cover her with mounds of dirt, I’m smiling.
 
And I’m also thinking: may this really be it. May M and I turn out to be as sustainable as I know we are. May Single and Dating Clink never have to be dug up and dusted off. May I never again be wishing and hoping and waiting for someone who has lukewarm feelings - at best - for me. May M and I be as happy as we are now, always.  
 
Magic 8 ball, care to chime in? 
 
All signs point to “it is decidedly so.” 
 
Awesome.