Wedding season has started. We attended our first of four, potentially six, weddings this past weekend. With each glass of wine or champagne I, naturally, became a better conversationalist and blabbed about the surprises and charm of married life.
I think Ben appreciated what I shared. If I recall, it went a little like this…
The first few weeks, months actually, felt like we were still dating. The ring was on my finger, we both crawled under the same sheets, but it felt like we were just enjoying an extended weekend visit.
Lately, I’ve noticed a gradual change. It’s a bond of stability and trust that continually grows stronger. No matter what, I always have a partner in life, someone that will always be there. If I lose my job, sleep with a side ponytail, forget to trim my toenails and pluck my eyebrows, or wake up with the folds of our bed sheets imprinted on my face, … he’s still there (not that any of those things would ever happen to me). We’re allies. Buddies. Partners.
I have someone to meet after work, hold hands with on Saturdays, and share every (and I mean every single, minute detail) with for the rest of my life. With every wedding we attend this summer, the ceremony and vows they make mean more and excite me for our future.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Anonymous
In grad school, I got a pink and white canvas bag with my name stitched in hot pink and job title printed in neon green on the side. Cute, girlie, monogrammed – definitely, a southern thing.
People complimented the bag back home. But, then again, people at home exude southern warmth and charm. Chances are slim that they’ll mug me during my morning commute, steal my bag, and then use the monogrammed information to steal my identity.
The bag, I finally decided, is not for New York City. I’ve realized that announcing my name and occupation to random strangers on my trek to work is not good.
I used it for the first time on Monday. I slung it over my shoulder as I walked out the door. I fiddled with the volume on my IPod and walked past a group of men. One whistled and then loudly said, “Good morning, sweet _________ (insert my first name here along with several other descriptive, yet moderately sensual adjectives).” Not so good.
On Tuesday, I squished onto the bus in Harlem. The bag sat on my lap, my name and occupation boldly faced outward. The hot pink print sparkled in the morning sun amid the sea of black and brown bags. A female voice a couple of seats down, apparently not dazzled, grumbled “What the #!@$ is an SLP?” Not so good again.
On Thursday, I swiped my metro card at the subway turnstile and jetted down the stairs to catch the train. As I hopped down the last step, I dodged a homeless man on the corner who personalized his request. “Money, money… I need money, ___________ (once again, my first name).”
Everyone from pervy construction workers to grumpy women to homeless men knew me by name. So much for anonymity in the city.
People complimented the bag back home. But, then again, people at home exude southern warmth and charm. Chances are slim that they’ll mug me during my morning commute, steal my bag, and then use the monogrammed information to steal my identity.
The bag, I finally decided, is not for New York City. I’ve realized that announcing my name and occupation to random strangers on my trek to work is not good.
I used it for the first time on Monday. I slung it over my shoulder as I walked out the door. I fiddled with the volume on my IPod and walked past a group of men. One whistled and then loudly said, “Good morning, sweet _________ (insert my first name here along with several other descriptive, yet moderately sensual adjectives).” Not so good.
On Tuesday, I squished onto the bus in Harlem. The bag sat on my lap, my name and occupation boldly faced outward. The hot pink print sparkled in the morning sun amid the sea of black and brown bags. A female voice a couple of seats down, apparently not dazzled, grumbled “What the #!@$ is an SLP?” Not so good again.
On Thursday, I swiped my metro card at the subway turnstile and jetted down the stairs to catch the train. As I hopped down the last step, I dodged a homeless man on the corner who personalized his request. “Money, money… I need money, ___________ (once again, my first name).”
Everyone from pervy construction workers to grumpy women to homeless men knew me by name. So much for anonymity in the city.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Work Out
As I brushed my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, an odd noise came from the other end of the apartment, grunts and heavy breathing. Even the hum of my electric Sonacare toothbrush couldn’t drown out the sound.
I poked my head around the corner to find my husband pumping iron. He stood and puffed out his chest like a glistening statue of bulging biceps and steel pecs. Kinda, sort of… well, almost.
He rooted himself in front of the mirror, strategically under the recessed lighting, and watched his muscles grow with each rep of the 20lb dumbbells. A recent purchase from Kmart. I never knew a mini Hulk Hogan loomed behind that slender 6’3 frame.
He caught my eye, winked, and laughed. I rolled my eyes and spit out the remaining toothpaste that I managed not to choke on. Fifteen seconds later I heard footsteps. He squeezed behind me in the bathroom and flipped the extra light switch. Because it’s all about the lighting.
He turned side to side, flexed his muscles, rolled his shoulders, tightened his stomach, and then dabbed his forehead with the washcloth.
“Babe, look at my muscles. Just look at them! They’re huge. Woo!”
“You just bought those weights and you lifted them for almost 45 seconds,” I reminded him. Honestly, did he think that 12 reps would do that much? Apparently, yes. Yes, he did.
“Babe, please. I’m huge, and I’m only going to get bigger.”
And, after only being married for nine and half months, I’ve learned what to say in a situation like this…
“Of course.”
I poked my head around the corner to find my husband pumping iron. He stood and puffed out his chest like a glistening statue of bulging biceps and steel pecs. Kinda, sort of… well, almost.
He rooted himself in front of the mirror, strategically under the recessed lighting, and watched his muscles grow with each rep of the 20lb dumbbells. A recent purchase from Kmart. I never knew a mini Hulk Hogan loomed behind that slender 6’3 frame.
He caught my eye, winked, and laughed. I rolled my eyes and spit out the remaining toothpaste that I managed not to choke on. Fifteen seconds later I heard footsteps. He squeezed behind me in the bathroom and flipped the extra light switch. Because it’s all about the lighting.
He turned side to side, flexed his muscles, rolled his shoulders, tightened his stomach, and then dabbed his forehead with the washcloth.
“Babe, look at my muscles. Just look at them! They’re huge. Woo!”
“You just bought those weights and you lifted them for almost 45 seconds,” I reminded him. Honestly, did he think that 12 reps would do that much? Apparently, yes. Yes, he did.
“Babe, please. I’m huge, and I’m only going to get bigger.”
And, after only being married for nine and half months, I’ve learned what to say in a situation like this…
“Of course.”
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Returning to New York
It was different this time when I left home and flew back to New York after Spring Break. I sort of felt it in the airplane as we landed, just a little. Then, I felt it again in the taxi on the ride home from the airport. It was a feeling, an emotion that I hadn’t felt before in New York City… relief and happiness, a kind of happiness to be back in New York.
For me, that’s huge. A big step toward considering New York more of a home as opposed to just some huge, overly crowded, expensive city that I must survive for the next few years. The transition from home to the city proved more difficult than anticipated, and finally a sense of relief and belonging welcomed me.
I slumped in the backseat of the taxi, weighted down by my 51.75 pound suitcase, and watched the trees in Central Park melt into one green blur. Some of the streets, some of the buildings looked familiar. The incessant car honks and people yelling oddly comforted me. The bright lights of restaurants and store windows cast shadows on the sidewalks that danced and excited me. For one second, I understood, I got why people fall in love with New York. For a brief instant, I finally felt connected to a place that had left me yearning for home since August.
The feeling didn’t last long. Or, it lasted until another car cut off my taxi which prompted my driver to let out a three sentence slew of cuss words in a foreign language. He then retaliated and swerved so violently to the right that a biker was forced to jump the curb and nearly sail into a metal street lamp.
I don’t consider New York my home… yet. But, I can sort of feel it growing on me. I can see it coming. Like the longer I stay the harder it may actually be to leave one day. For the first time, New York and I are seeing eye-to-eye. We are working out our differences and, like springtime, ready to begin anew.
For me, that’s huge. A big step toward considering New York more of a home as opposed to just some huge, overly crowded, expensive city that I must survive for the next few years. The transition from home to the city proved more difficult than anticipated, and finally a sense of relief and belonging welcomed me.
I slumped in the backseat of the taxi, weighted down by my 51.75 pound suitcase, and watched the trees in Central Park melt into one green blur. Some of the streets, some of the buildings looked familiar. The incessant car honks and people yelling oddly comforted me. The bright lights of restaurants and store windows cast shadows on the sidewalks that danced and excited me. For one second, I understood, I got why people fall in love with New York. For a brief instant, I finally felt connected to a place that had left me yearning for home since August.
The feeling didn’t last long. Or, it lasted until another car cut off my taxi which prompted my driver to let out a three sentence slew of cuss words in a foreign language. He then retaliated and swerved so violently to the right that a biker was forced to jump the curb and nearly sail into a metal street lamp.
I don’t consider New York my home… yet. But, I can sort of feel it growing on me. I can see it coming. Like the longer I stay the harder it may actually be to leave one day. For the first time, New York and I are seeing eye-to-eye. We are working out our differences and, like springtime, ready to begin anew.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Sunday Afternoon
I took this picture of Ben after we ate the biggest BBQ meal ever at a restaurant called Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem. We tried to walk home, but crashed on the lawn at Columbia University. Our stomachs were so full that my back hurt from waddling and the button on my jeans left a permanent imprint on my stomach. Ben slipped into a food coma shortly after this picture.
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