My Inner Voice is Dumb

This past Monday I had coffee with a friend I haven’t seen since I was married.  In fact, the last time I saw her was when we were hanging out with my ex-husband.  Since I haven’t been married to him for almost four years now, that’s kindof saying something.

I didn’t really know what to expect.  I wasn’t sure if we would talk about my ex, or if we even should.  What, exactly, was the protocol here?  Were we supposed to pretend he didn’t exist, or directly acknowledge the elephant in the room and invite it to join us for coffee?  

I haven’t done the rather awkward “first conversation” in a while.  In about four years.

So I felt that familiar resurgence of shame and guilt, and thereby resorted to my familiar throwaway line of “I’m a terrible person.” I said it often four years ago, and several times in the years since when discussing my divorce.  After all, I’d rather be the one to say it than to hear the same words from a friend.  Self-flagellation is a strange form of self-defense.  It hurts less to berate ourselves.  We’re used to the negative attitude.  We hear similar phrases all the time from our inner destructive demons, so often that we come to expect nothing less from ourselves.

“You’re a terrible person.”

“You’re not a good artist.”

“You suck at writing.”

“You’re bad in bed.”

“You’re boring.”

“Your laugh is dumb.”

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

“Why are you like this?"

“No one really likes you.”

 

I don’t know about you, but I’ve heard these things countless times.  And all of these horribly mean things came from only one person: myself.  

Well, from those dumb inner demons, at least.

No one has ever told me actually told me any of those things.  (Actually, my ex-husband had a few colorful variations on that first one, but that comes with the territory.)

And my friend, when I used my preferred emotional self-defense tactic for the second time, exclaimed: “Stop saying that!”

She’s right.  I should stop saying it.  I should stop saying all of those terrible things to myself.  

You should stop saying them too.  I hear you out there telling others how you’re not enough, how you’re less than you should be.  I see the self-deprecating Facebook posts.  And I want to channel my friend’s exclamation and scream “Stop saying that!”

Words have incredible power, no matter what the old rhyme says, and they have even more power when the words originate from inside ourselves. Others may have the ability to wear our self-worth down over time, though we do at least usually start out with a sense of indignation when someone else tries to put us down.  But when our own inner voice tells us that we suck?  We tend to roll over in submission and agree with no argument whatsoever.  Yes, Dumb Inner Demon, you’re right, I AM a terrible person.  I AM fat.  I AM ugly.  I SHOULD stop doing something I love, because I’m no good at it.

And I have just one thing to say: to you, to myself, to my Dumb Inner Demon.

STOP. 

SAYING. 

THAT.

Can you even imagine the freedom you would feel if you could mute that horrible inner voice, if you could just enjoy your life, your hobbies, your own body?  

This is not to say that critique and improvement should be dismissed.  But they shouldn’t be all-important, or all-consuming.  None of us are perfect, all of us are learning and changing and constantly making mistakes.  Be compassionate towards each other.

But, above all, be compassionate to yourself.  Stop being your own worst critic and start being your own cheerleader.

I’m not a terrible person.  I’m a person, who made (and continually makes) mistakes.

I’m not a terrible person.  It’s physically hard to type that and not hit the “delete” key until it all goes away again.  I’m so used to saying it, as a joke, as an excuse, as self-defense.

I’m not a terrible person.

Neither are you.  Make sure you tell yourself that. 

Build Me Up Buttercup

Hey, you.

Yes, you.

I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen.  More than that, I need you to believe me.

We might be close.  We might not be.  But it doesn't change what I have to say, which is this: You are worthwhile.  You are amazing.  You are awesome.  You deserve the world and everything in it.  You deserve happiness and love and support and true friendships and true partnerships.  Not for anything you've said or done, but because you're you.  You're a person.  You have your own incredible, unique thoughts and emotions and feelings and desires and talents.  You're unlike anyone else on this earth, and you can't even begin to appreciate how remarkable that is.

What you don't deserve is someone, anyone, who makes you feel less than that.

This is a subject close to my heart, as I wasted years of my life with a man (and I use that term loosely) who made me feel less than.  Less than what, you ask?  Less that good enough.  Less than respected.  Less than attractive.  Less than loved.  Less than amazing.  Just... less.  There were terms and limits on when I deserved to be treated well (usually reserved to when he wanted something from me), and usually I didn't measure up.  My needs and desires were less than his, and always would be.

But, every now and then he would throw me a bone to keep me trailing along behind him.  He would take me out for a nice dinner.  He would buy me something.  He would allow me to perform at a pole show.  It wasn't much, but it was enough at the time.  It shouldn't have been, but it was.

Why? Because I didn't think there was better out there.  Because I had barely dated anyone else.  Because I didn't think it was that bad.  Because I felt guilty for wanting to leave.

I didn't know what I deserved.  I didn't have the self-esteem to know what I deserved.  I didn't have people telling me what I deserved, because they didn't know I what needed to hear until it was almost too late.

If this is the case for you, then I have one thing to say to you: fuck that shit.  You deserve so much more.  You deserve more than you think you do.

You deserve rainbows and unicorns and pizza and the fluffiest puppy/kitten of your preference.  You deserve someone who thinks they're lucky as hell to have you in their life, and tells you so.  It doesn't matter if that person is a friend, a family member, or a romantic partner.  And it doesn't matter if sometimes you fight over stupid shit, or get on each other's nerves, or disagree about politics or religion or what the hell to have for dinner.  What matters is that they are there for you, and want to be there for you.  What matters is how they treat you, because actions 100% always speak louder than words.

We live in an era of burgeoning girl power.  We have Wonder Woman.  We have Ruth Bader Ginsberg.  We have strong, capable women literally all around us.  We are strong, capable women.  And yet, we find ourselves in situations where we continually compromise our awesomeness for someone who sees no problem with that compromise being made.  We stay with men (or women) who are small, selfish people, who pull us down so that they feel better about themselves, who keep us safe and controlled behind the walls of what we can or can't do.  And we have not grown up with the self-esteem required to know when enough is enough.  Or we've somehow lost that self-esteem along the way.

I was lucky.  I found my self-esteem through the world of pole dancing and through the friends that I made through the pole and burlesque world.  I found a relationship with a man who didn't treat me like a second-class citizen, like a servant, like less than.  But even if I hadn't have found that man, I would still be better off alone than with someone like my ex.

That's the important part.  You are awesome all on your own.  All by yourself.  You don't need someone else to make you awesome.  You don't need to be thinner to be awesome.  You don't need to be richer to be awesome.  You're awesome just by showing up in your own awesome, imperfect skin.  Bam.  Awesome.

Now, read that last paragraph again.  It's important.

We forget that.  I know I do.  It's easy to, even without someone else constantly dragging us down.  There's that little voice inside that whispers our mistakes, our doubts, our fears.  That voice tells us that it's all true: we are less than.  We aren't talented.  We aren't successful.  We aren't worth it.  We aren't awesome.

That voice is wrong.  Dead wrong.  But it can be loud.  And it is persistent as hell if we don't constantly work to keep it gagged, to drown it out with our own amazingness, with our own self-confidence, and with a chorus of friends who are there to shut that bastard down when we lose the ability to do so ourselves.

I promise this: if you come to me, for whatever reason, I will always tell you how awesome you are.  I will tell that voice inside you to shut the hell up, and I will tell you exactly what you deserve.  Because I've been there.  I've been lost and convinced I was less than. I don't want anyone else to get stuck in that same space.

I'm pretty awesome (even on the days I don't feel like it).

And so are you.

The Final Countdown

There's only two more full days until I get married.

Two days.

I don't even know how that happened or how it's possible that time has gone this quickly.  I swear we just got engaged the other week.

Two days.

One of my friends asked me the other day how many meltdowns I've had.

And honestly?  Not as many as I might have expected, none at all since almost two weeks ago when Mark and I both admitted to each other that we were freaked out that the other person didn't want to get married.

Quite frankly, we don't want to get married.  We don't.  But we do want to be married.  Those of you who have gone through weddings can surely relate, at least in part, and know that there is most definitely a difference between the two.  Getting married is, simply, a pain in the ass, even when you do truly want to be with your future spouse for the rest of your life and all that nonsense.

But the problem is the process.  The problem is that weddings have gotten out of control.  The problem is  that everything costs way too much money for one little portion of one little day.  The problem is that everyone has an opinion about what you should or should do and who should or shouldn't be invited.

(The problem may also be that I'm a ridiculous perfectionist and therefore made my own bouquet and cupcakes, but that's totally besides the point.)

The problem is not with me or Mark, and that is the one thing keeping me going.  Right now I would give almost anything for it to be 11:00 on Saturday and for it all to be almost over, to be on the very brink of being married to the love of my life.

Part of me wondered, during my momentary crisis a couple weeks ago, if I was sure about all this.

I've been down this road before, after all.  It wasn't great.  It was, actually, one of the worst experiences of my life.  And here I was, ten years later, about to do it all over again?  Was I sure, was I really sure, that this was a good idea?  What if I was making the same mistake again?

But I thought about it.  And wasn't scared of being married.  I know, as much as I can know anything, that I want to be with this guy for all of the foreseeable future.  There's never really been anyone else, in spite of all efforts to the contrary.

No, what I was scared of was that Mark didn't want to be with me, that he would change his mind, realize he'd made a huge mistake.  Because, really, I wouldn't blame him.  I'm damaged goods.  I've been divorced.  I still have significant emotional damage and a tendency to stress-meltdowns.  The fact that I don't drink as much means that I cry a lot more instead.  I post selfies every day and have a ridiculous amount of clothes.  And pins.  And books.  And shoes.

Really, I wouldn't blame him if he decided I wasn't the best idea ever.

But that would be awful.

So do I wish we didn't have to go through this whole wedding thing?  Yes.  Do I wish we would have eloped back on Halloween?  Yes.

And do I want to marry him and risk everything all over again, ten years later?

Oh, yes.  Hell yes.

Squad Goals

So.  It's under a month until we get married.

The countdown is on.  The stress is mounting.  Invitations still haven't gone out.  I have literally no idea where the rings are right now.

What else could possibly go wrong?

Don't ask.

(Also don't ask me how unpacking is going.  Unless you want either a 10-minute rant or spontaneous tears with no guarantees of which it will be.)

Basically, Mark is stuck with me because I am never ever ever going to get married again.

My last wedding was almost exactly 10 years ago (though in August instead of April).  I don't know if I was better at wedding planning back then or what, but this has been hell.  I mean, it doesn't help that we're both working full-time, buying a house, and living mostly out of boxes while digging through other boxes for what we need in the new house.  It also doesn't help that the moving timeline was suddenly thrust upon us two months before the wedding, effectively postponing all wedding planning until what is essentially the last minute.

None of this helps.

What does help is my support system.  Obviously, there is Mark (literally the only person I would go through this for).  He keeps me sane.  He doesn't judge me when I cry or meltdown (that I know of).  He designed our invitations.  Most of all, he's always there for me.

And there are my friends, who have been ever-present with suggestions, ideas, and offers of help.  You've heard the phrase, "It takes a village to raise a child"?  Well, this is going to be the village that planned a wedding.

The importance of International Women's Day is not lost on me at all, particularly this month.  I'm well aware that I wouldn't be the person I am today without all the incredible women in my life, and I love that there is an opportunity to celebrate them more specifically than I already try to do.

I wouldn't be as strong or as self-confident without these friends, and I wouldn't have all the amazing role models that are available to me in the various and overlapping forms of mothers and partners and businesswomen and just general badass ladies.  These are women who know who they are, what they want, and are always striving for their goals (and succeeding, or failing, or both).  They step up to the plate and they admit defeat, they rock bad hair days and they look effortlessly glamorous.  Most importantly, they own their lives.  (Most often they are owning their lives while also being mothers and partners and businesswomen and general badass ladies.)

I like to think that they have influenced me in becoming more and more myself and less of the person I thought I needed to be.  I like to think that I'm a little more badass than I might have been had I never gone to that first burlesque show, or never gotten the nerve to go to my first pole dance class.  I know for a fact that I wouldn't have had so many offers of love and support when I got divorced.  I wouldn't have gone to Mexico, or to House on the Rock.  I wouldn't have had a tornado of women come and pack up my entire kitchen when I moved.  I wouldn't have an entire day of surprise bachelorette party antics coming up this weekend.

Basically, I wouldn't have nearly as many friends to help me out when I so desperately need it.

I deeply love and am eternally grateful for the many wonderful women in my life, both today and every single other day.  You help make my life worthwhile and, without you, I'm not sure that I would be marrying the love of my life in under a month.

So thank you, my loves, for everything.

There's No Place Like Home

Yesterday, I left the apartment I've lived in since 2009.

I moved there with my ex-husband after he was asked to leave the seminary when they decided that he wasn't fit to be a pastor (and when he apparently hadn't been paying any of our bills).  It was a refuge, an "us-against-the-world" kindof place.  It was the happiest I'd been in the two years since I'd gotten married.

Obviously, that didn't last long.  Us-against-the-world situations rarely do.

I thought I had fallen back in love in that apartment, but it was just an illusion.  Eventually, I fell completely out of love and lost track of who I was in the process.  I lived, or I existed, in a mostly alcohol-induced numbness, surrounded by books and foster dogs, until I fell in love with my soulmate.

That apartment has seen a lot.  It's seen pole parties with my half-naked friends.  It's seen dinner parties.  It's seen me coming home drunk on multiple occasions (or just getting drunk in the living room by myself).  It's seen a divorce-aversary party.  It's seen fights and tears and many rather unmentionable things.  It's been the home to 13 dogs.  I've snuck out of the house (and snuck into it).

I have memories in every single room.  There were love notes on my bathroom mirror and there was dog hair in every nook and cranny.  My ex grabbed me by my hair and pinned me to the wall in the dining room and there was a hole in the bedroom where he punched it.  I spent afternoons reading in my office.  I wrote stories and heart-broken poems there.  Mark and I danced in the kitchen.  We spent hours entwined together talking on the couch.  We kissed at the front door for ages rather than say goodnight.

I grew up there, in a way.  I stopped being an immature and naive little girl who was hiding from the world and became a woman, a divorcee, and, ultimately more honestly myself.

It was my first real apartment, and hopefully my last.  It was home, even during those long months of my separation when I tried to avoid it as best I could.  It held my entire life (and after packing everything up, or throwing it away, I can tell you that that is no small statement).

And yesterday, it was empty and practically sparkling from about two weeks of deep cleaning and painting, with the amazing help of so many of our friends.  I've cleaned things I never cleaned before (and never want to clean again).   I never want to look at mini-blinds again.

Was I sad to leave it?

I'm not sure I have time or energy to be sad about moving.  There's too much else to do.  We're getting married in literally one month and we've barely done anything towards that because we were so focused on the move.

It's the end of an era, that's for sure.  But it's mostly an era I'm glad to be done with.  I'm thrilled that we're going to be living in a place where my ex has never set foot, a place that can be exclusively ours.  And as much as I hate and am stressed out by change, it's well past time to move on.

I'm fairly confident that I will be worth it.

Also?  I'd better get my damn deposit back.

But First, Let Me Take a Selfie

Before he left, my ex said that I was vain.

And, considering the fact that I've taken at least one selfie every day for over two months now, I can't easily argue that he was wrong.

(He also said that I was selfish, which is pretty rich coming from the guy who insisted that I essentially buy back the car from him, even though we'd bought it entirely with my money, but hey.  Divorce sucks, even if it's worth it.)

But the fact that I willingly take and post selfies, and that I honestly like (and sometimes love) how I look in said selfies is such a long shot from where I used to be.

Growing up, I was incredibly unhappy with the way I looked.  I was this awkward, gangly thing with a crooked back, a big nose, pale skin, small boobs, and (to quote my mother) "dishwater blond hair."  All around me, it seemed, were these gorgeous specimens of post-pubescence, girls who were (quite literally) blossoming into women, girls who wore more than a training bra, girls who had boyfriends and were popular and blonde and perfect.

And then there was me.  Awkward and nerdy and desperate for the right kind of attention (or, perhaps, the wrong kind of attention, as the case may be).  It is, honestly, painful to remember how desperate I was, so desperate and clueless that I actually one time wrote out a list of ways I could be more popular.  This list included things like "be the first to answer all the teacher's questions right," so you can clearly see how successful I was bound to be in my quest for popularity.

I put Sun-in in my hair.  I stuffed Kleenex in my bras.  I stared in vain at my nose, wondered how in the world I could hide such a horrendously prominent thing on my face.  I thought that if I somehow I got a tan that I would look more like one of those girls, instead of being this pale and unpopular ghost with a schnoz.

It probably goes without saying that I didn't really date much.  I had a brief relationship my freshman year of high school (which I regretted as soon as it began), and a very-slightly-less-brief relationship in college.  I also had a not-relationship-relationship with my current fiance', wherein we would see movies when I was home from college and make out afterwards but never actually "date."

Of course I had many, many crushes, starting with being "in love" with my pastor when I was in the third grade and going from there (more often than not with someone at least vaguely close to my own age), but very few actually reciprocated in the way I longed for.  This goes a long way to explaining why I married the first long-term boyfriend I had when I couldn't think of a reason to break up with him.  For most of my life I could barely get a guy to so much as look at me.  And now someone actually wanted to be with me?  And marry me?  God only knows that might never happen again.  It wasn't like I had them knocking down the doors.

Self-esteem, or the lack thereof, is a bitch.  Because I was still that awkward, gangly girl that I used to be, even though I was dying my hair occasionally and had finally started to grow into my nose.  I was still desperate for attention and love, though now it was most definitely the wrong kind of attention.

Let's fast-forward a few years, shall we?  I started dressing vintage, started taking pole dance classes, and basically found my own self-esteem amongst the wreckage of my life.  You know the story by now, if you know me at all or have been reading this blog.

Am I still awkward?  Hell yes!  I might be less gangly than I used to be, due to a love of tacos and cupcakes, but under my red hair I'm still the same dishwater-blonde nerd with a big nose, pale skin, and (not-quite-as) small boobs.  I'm still not blonde and tan and perfect.  I'm not anything resembling perfect, and God knows I never will be.

But none of that means I can't be totally into myself and the way I look.  I wish more people were, honestly.

So yeah.  I take a lot of selfies now.

So what?

I'm thrilled to be in a place where I love myself, where I can have fun with what I wear and how I look, and where I can inspire my friends and acquaintances to send me their own selfies and to express themselves in ways they might not normally.

Maybe taking so many selfies is vain.  And maybe it is completely insane that I haven't repeated an outfit in two and a half months.

But I'd rather be this girl than the one I used to be.

I wish someone would have told me, all those years ago, that I was beautiful the way I was (all elbows and knees and nose), that I shouldn't try to fit in, and that I shouldn't settle.  I wish someone would have told me to worry less about being popular and more about being myself.

But I guess I got there.

Eventually.

So yeah.  I take a lot of selfies now.

And I'm not about to stop.

A Tale of Two Credit Cards

The truly amazing thing about my ex-husband is that, even more than two years later, he can continue to fuck up my life in new and remarkable ways.

Many of you know that Mark and I are attempting to buy his grandma's house.  To that end, we applied for a home loan and had our credit reports run by the mortgage company.  Honestly? I wasn't worried.  I had (I thought) no debt outside what I owe my parents.  I had (I thought) no credit cards attached to my name.  (All this was in accordance with the divorce papers, wherein, for the sake of getting rid of my ex, I agreed to pay half of 10 grand in debt that I didn't even know some of the origin of, on cards that were opened before we married.)  I've paid all my bills on time for over two years now.  I have a steady job with a consistent and decent income.  What could go wrong?

Ha.

Never, ever, ask that question.

What could go wrong was ten years ago I married someone I shouldn't have.  I married someone who could not be trusted with money and yet insisted that he be in charge of paying all the bills (in spite of my repeated requests to take over some of the bill-paying when my phone would be turned off from months upon months of the bill not being paid, or when I would get calls from credit card companies looking for past-due payment).  I married someone who (as I discovered) actively hid credit card bills from me, all the while insisting that I exist off an "allowance" of $160 a month.  Moreover, I married someone who literally stopped paying his bills after he left St. Louis.

Really, that should be completely beside the point.  I could care less what he did after he finally got the hell out or how he ruins his own life.  I got several debt collection letters in his name and gladly forwarded them on to his mother's address.  Whatever.

What's pissing me off is that my name was still apparently attached to two credit cards as an authorized user (one of which I have literally no knowledge or record of), which were eventually closed and written off as bad debt.

And therefore my credit score is down.  Significantly.

Needless to say, I was upset.

... Upset may not be a strong enough word.  Frustrated, maybe?  Angry?  Pissed off, perhaps?

Now, I may be biased, but I believe my anger (and that is, I have decided, the best word for it) is pretty justified.  I paid off "my half" of the credit card bills, after all.  I've been responsible and self-sufficient and managed to keep my life together in the middle of a divorce and losing my job.  And what do I get for it?

Bad credit, that's what I get.

I get a reminder, in the middle of a meeting with our loan agent, of what my life used to be like.  I get that old familiar feeling of anxiety tightening in my chest.  I get insomnia and bad dreams and, insult upon injury, I lose my appetite.  I get to dread the possibility that I will actually have to talk to my ex and convince him to call a credit card company to get my name off these damn cards.

I realize, of course I realize, that this could all have been avoided if I just hadn't gotten married 10 years ago.  Or if I had insisted on being an equal partner, like I should have.  Or if I hadn't been so pathetically naive.  Or if.  Or if.  Or if.  I could (and have) lose sleep over or ifs.

Anyway.

Long story short, after digging through fascinatingly horrifying old bills and paperwork last night, I called the credit card companies this morning and got my name taken off the cards.  It was... surprisingly painless?  I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in the meantime I'm just hoping it really was that easy.

So?  There's that.  And even if getting cards deleted off my credit report isn't the best thing ever, it has to be better than having my name attached to two bad debts.

And now I can move on with the process of buying a house, moving, and getting married.  And I can be unendingly grateful that that life is no longer mine, that I have a fiance' who leaves chocolate in my lunchbag when I'm stressed instead of notes about how we don't have enough money to pay rent, who puts up with my moods instead of telling me I'm a bitch, and who doesn't think it's beneath him to actually do chores or cook or clean.

Am I laying it on a little too thick?  That's just because I really need to keep him around.  After all, he has a better credit score than I do.

My Best Friend's Wedding

I have a confession.  Maybe more of a disclaimer.

I've never actually seen My Best Friend's Wedding.

I started to watch it ages ago.  I was at some sleepover, possibly for Girl Scouts, and I can just vaguely remember the opening sequence.  But that's it.  I don't remember who gets the guy or who gets married or doesn't get married or anything.  My strongest memory from the night is dancing around with the other girls there and being told that I "spin too much" when I dance.  (Well, years later, my nickname in pole dance class was The Spin Queen, so take that, bitches.)

Obviously, this post is not going to be about that movie.  Or about spinning.

It is, however, kindof about pole dancing.

Or at least it's about one of my best friends, who I would never have known if it weren't for pole dancing.

I've known Jessica for around seven years now.  I've been friends with her and Sandi since I impulsively decided to take a pole dancing class after seeing Michelle Mynx perform at a burlesque show (which I also went to rather impulsively).  You can read more about pole dancing in this previous post.

We've traveled together, partied together, performed together, and supported each other like friends are supposed to do.

And, last Friday, Jessica got married.

I'm not going to lie, it was the best wedding I've ever been to.

This is not to say that all the other weddings I've been to have sucked.  They haven't.  But this one managed to surpass them all, in spite of the two reception venue changes and all the regularly scheduled wedding stress.

What made it so great?  Well, it wasn't just because I got to hear one of my poems actually read aloud to an actual audience (even though that was truly incredible and I didn't once tackle the officiant to read it myself).  And it wasn't just because I got to go on a tour of The Fox Theatre and be a complete theatre geek and fangirl about being allowed both onstage and backstage. 

And it wasn't just because the bride wore black and a lesbian burlesque performer married them in the lobby of The Fox (though that probably helped some).

Gorgeous photo courtesy of Carrie Meyer at Insomniac Studios.

It wasn't even because she had two photobooths at her reception (or that I ran one).

Instead, it might be because I've rarely seen two people so well-suited to each other.

And it might be because I'm finally coming more fully around again to the idea of love and marriage, particularly of love and marriage between two best friends.  And that's exactly what Chris and Jessica are.  They are best friends as well as lovers.  They cosplay together.  They're crazy cat people together.  They enjoy each other's company, while fully realizing that neither one of them is perfect.  They are geeks and nerds of the highest and most excellent level.  And they have the creepiest bathroom I've ever been in.

(And they let me come over and watch Game of Thrones.)

I may be cynical and judgmental about many things, but I can't be about Chris and Jessica.  They are one of the most genuine couples I know, and I'm so very glad that I got to be a part of their amazing day.

And that I got to be able to make a zombie wedding cross-stitch.  You know, priorities.

 

To be honest, it's been a long time since I've been able to actually enjoy other people's weddings.  Back when I was unhappily married, I always felt a strange sense of loss when my friends would get married.  I think I subconsciously knew that they were about to experience something I never had, and I was jealous of how happy they looked.  I didn't know how to be a part of that, even though, in theory, we were all part of the same "club."

But Friday?  Friday was different.  I'm not the cynical, unhappy person I once was.  Or, at the very least, not as cynical.  I'm not jealous anymore, not looking for anything missing.  It's a nice feeling, really, to be more fully part of someone else's happiness instead of envious of it.

Mark and I have decided that there's little point in anyone else ever getting married after Chris and Jessica.  There's no real way to top it, in my opinion.  Mark has declared that he's not even bothering to wear a suit for our wedding, just a T-shirt with a tux printed on the front.  (I think we all know that's not actually happening, but I can understand his sentiments.)

So, our wedding won't be like Chris and Jessica's.  And that's fine.  Because it's not a contest for me anymore.  And for that I'm so incredibly grateful.

When Pizza Isn't Enough: Making a Love that Lasts

I love pizza.  (Okay, most food.  Practically all food.  Whatever.)  But pizza is up there.  I like it in nearly all its many and various forms.  I'll even tolerate Imo's if I'm in the right mood for really shitty pizza.  And yes, I know those are fighting words for some people.  I make no apologies.

Mark and I have practically made a study in local pizzas over the past few years, both together and separately.  We haven't hit every pizza joint in town, but we've done some damage.  We've bounced around here and there, been obsessed with some places, and been disappointed one too many times by others.  We've tried to find good bad pizza.  We've eaten pizza out of desperation.  We've compromised on toppings.  We've both made our own pizzas, experimenting with crust and sauces and toppings.  I've deemed him the resident pizza expert, due to his past work experience at Pizza Hut.

I've even eaten pizza while drinking champagne with my divorce-maids after wrecking my wedding dress.

Last week, Mark made what is (for now) my new favorite pizza: sausage and cashew.  It's certainly not a combination I would have come up with on my own, but as soon as he told me about it I was intrigued.

And now it's love.

Like most love, it was unexpected.  I can't guarantee it will last, but it definitely seems to be something to build on.

Now obviously, pizza isn't love.  If you love me, you might make me pizza or bring me pizza, but pizza can't be the entire basis for a relationship.

... or can it?

Probably not.

So if pizza isn't enough, what is?

What makes for a strong relationship?  What sets apart that one pizza, er, person from all the others?

And what right do I have to talk about relationships, anyway?  There are plenty of jokes to be made about the divorced woman or man sitting around and giving marital advice.  After all, I'm divorced, which automatically means I failed at being married.  Right?  What would I know about a good relationship?

Well, I don't profess to be an expert, but I at least know what a good relationship isn't.  I know the warning signs.  I know the regret.  I know the unhappiness that comes from staying in something that is, at its very core, so incredibly wrong.  I know that I should have listened to the little voice inside me that kept whispering that I should cut my losses and run before it cost me ten thousand dollars and seven years of of my life.  I know what it's like to struggle almost daily to have a good relationship, to do everything in my power to not fail at being married.

But what about what it takes to have a good relationship is?  How do you build a love that will last longer than my first marriage, or at least longer than a good pizza?

There's so much that goes into it, and much of it subject to personal taste.  For me, a good relationship is being with a man who cares enough about me to consider my needs and to try to make our lives better, who believes in me, and who I believe in.  It's knowing that he has a good heart (in spite of what he sometimes thinks about himself).  It's the fact that everything in my life is better with him than without him.  It's the fact that I want to build a life and a home with him instead of trying to find my fulfillment outside of the relationship.

Mainly, I think it comes down to trust.  No, not crust.  Trust.  You have to trust that person.  And not just trust that they won't cheat or lie or steal (though those are all very important as well), but trust them with your whole self, with your secrets and desires and hopes.  You have to let someone else know you like no one else ever has.  The past three years have been a whole new experience in what intimacy really means.  It's not just sex.  It's emotional, it's mental, it's the whole vulnerable package.

It's a terrifying risk, the ultimate trust fall.  Because if they drop you, what then?

That's simple enough.  You pick yourself up and try again.  Or don't.  Be your own perfect relationship.  Order a delivery pizza and eat it all by yourself.

If there's one thing being divorced does make me an authority on, it's the fact that the end of a relationship is not the end of the world.

We all deserve good relationships, good sex, and good pizza.  While it doesn't hurt to have some bad every now and then, it shouldn't ever be something we settle for because we're hoping it will get better with time.  The good is out there.

Go out and try a little of everything until you find just the right one.

I'm No Expert, But...

Back in college, I once wrote an entire 20-page final paper on Jane Austen in three nights.  This was, not uncoincidentally, also the first time I ever drank coffee.

I was supposed to be working on the paper throughout the entire semester, turning in a section at a time for critique.  Well.  I turned in my first two sections, got miserable feedback, and promptly stopped turning in sections.  I continued reading the books, making notes, and doing research, but as for actual writing?  I didn't do it.

Suddenly, the deadline was looming and panic (naturally) set in.  So I and three other girls in my class spent three nights sitting at Starbucks till two and three in the morning, drinking coffee and writing our hearts out.

I finished the paper (just in time), turned it in, and waited with none-too-high hopes.

The professor, the regrettably late Dr. Lila Kurth, was always a hard grader.  She gave me my only C and often wrote "trite" in the margins of my papers.  But, when I went to go pick up my Jane Austen paper, she handed it to me and then told me she needed to give me a hug, because my paper was "beautiful."

I'll never forget that moment.

It was also the start of my realization that I truly do function best under a deadline.

This has not changed.  Most of my blog entries are finished just under the wire.  And months ago, my friend Jessica asked me to write something for her upcoming wedding.

Why she did this is mostly beyond me.  It seems unusual to ask the (more-than-slightly cynical) divorcee to write something about love for a wedding.  I didn't write anything for my own wedding, much less love poetry about my ex-husband.

And, to be honest, I didn't exactly write much for her wedding until very recently.

(Please, Jessica, don't think I didn't work on this over the intervening months since you asked me.  I did, honestly I did.  I have scraps of poems and ideas all over the place, from notebooks to my phone to the bathroom mirror.  But nothing solid and certainly nothing finished.)

But, thankfully, deadline panic strikes once again (with the help of my now long-time friend, coffee), and I have a not-quite-love poem ready for a not-quite-conventional wedding.

I do wonder if I could have written a love poem while I was still married.  My last marriage was where my writing went to die, after all.  When I did write, it was dark and lonesome words which I still uncover from time to time and which always remind me of how secretly miserable I was.

Divorce, as brutal as it was, gave me something I hadn't had in a long time: the freedom to have my own voice.  I know I talk about this a lot, but as a writer, it's still important to me.  Without my voice, what am I?  Certainly not a great writer.

Not that I'm that confident in what I am at the moment anyway.

The other week, Mark intercepted a text from Jessica asking me if I were a published author so she could put it in the wedding program.  If it were up to me, I would have hemmed and hawed about the answer.  I honestly don't feel that simply being published in my college magazine a few times and once in a local literary magazine really count as my being a "published author," but Mark disagreed and told her so.

And so the decision was made: I'm a published author.

Maybe they're right.  I might not feel that I'm a properly published author, or that I'm the best choice to turn to for a wedding poem, but I've always been my own worst critic.

So while I'm certainly no expert, I'm also no longer mute.

Give me a deadline, some coffee, and a blank page, and eventually?

I'll come up with something to say.

The Biggest Mistake

Nine years ago, I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

I knew it was wrong.  I knew it wouldn't last.  I knew I wasn't really in love.  And I knew the wrong person was going to be waiting for me at the front of the church.

I knew all of this.

What I didn't know was one little thing: how to get out of it.

I was too proud, or too ashamed, or too stubborn to tell my parents I no longer wanted to get married.  Everyone was in town.  Everything had been paid for.  I wasn't Julia Roberts.  I wasn't a runaway bride.  I didn't feel like I could ask for help.

And so I went out the night before the wedding (nine years ago this very day) with some of my best girl friends and got drunk.  I outlasted my three bridesmaids, drank til I threw up, drank some more, and got back to the hotel room at 4 in the morning, 12 hours before the actual wedding.  I had been sick for a few days before, but that night cemented the almost complete loss of my voice.

And so I got married: hungover, sick, terrified, and barely able to talk.

Looking back, it wasn't just the literal loss of my voice.  That day was when I started losing my figurative voice as well.  I lost the ability to be honest and became an increasingly secretive person.  From the moment the wedding was over, my life also felt like it was over.  My new husband was depressed, suicidal, and violently angry by turns, increasingly demanding, and went through money like water.  He hid our debt and secretly ate his way through the money in our account.  He couldn't take care of himself or hold a job, and yet was jealous of my paycheck and authority at work.  We fought in the car, we fought at work (fights which I never won), and yet I was shocked when my boss told me my husband was abusive.

One of the first steps to being to being abused is to believe that the person abusing you isn't capable of doing so.

And now?

I suppose it's valid to say that I can be a little outspoken about my life.  There is the matter of this blog, after all, and the fact that I'm more than willing to tell you what you want to know (and often more than you wanted to know).  It's my story, my voice, and my wonderfully imperfect life.  I've slowly been getting it all back, and I don't want to lose it again.

So now here I am.  Nine years out from my first marriage, a year after wrecking my wedding dress, and engaged again.

The more things change, as they say...

Sometimes I think I must crazy to get married again.

Other times (most times), I think I'm so unbelievably lucky to get married again.  I get a do-over, a second chance, a whatever you want to call it.  I get a man who knows me and all my flaws better than any one else ever has and still wants to marry me.  I get someone who feels more like home than anyone or anything else.  I get the relationship I never believed in.

I get a fiancé who comes home, lifts me up into the world's biggest hug, and then says, "We need to talk."

And then, a few seconds later, he allows my heart to start beating again by finishing, "... we really should narrow down a wedding date."

But that, I believe, is a story for another blog.

In the Beginning

First impressions are funny things.  They're tied up into our memories and emotions and personal preferences and can be very fickle indeed.  While I usually pride myself on being a good judge of first impressions (my first impression of my ex-husband, for example, was a negative one and I obviously should have listened more to myself on that one), I have been known to admit when I'm wrong.  Some of the people who ended up being my closest friends are people I originally didn't like.

Why didn't I like them?  The reasons are usually varied and dependent on my mood, the situation, or both.  They were annoying.  They were kindof a jerk.  We seemingly didn't have enough in common.  They talked too much (see: annoying). Or I was jealous of them.

To be fair, I know people have had negative first impressions of me as well.  My friend Julia originally thought I was a bitch because I didn't talk to her, "always looked perfect," and was always surrounded by my group of friends.  Eventually, she realized that I was just shy and she become a very dear friend and confidante.

While I generally remember my first impressions of people, first memories are an entirely different thing.  First memories usually don't stick around for very long.  I don't remember the first time I saw my ex-husband.  I don't remember the first time I saw most of my friends, or my past crushes.  First memories, for me, need to be something more vivid and important or inspiring in order to last.  For example, I still remember the first time I saw Michelle Mynx perform and knew that I wanted to learn how to pole dance.

Last night, I told Mark my very first memory of him.

Please, don't expect some sort of adorable "meet-cute."  This is not a Hollywood movie.  Also, it in no way qualifies as vivid, important, or inspiring, really.  But it is something I've never forgotten (even if he did).

It was thirteen years ago, when I was that awkward young eighteen-year-old joining the community theatre cast of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  (I've referenced this in a prior ridiculously sappy blog, for those just joining us.)

I was standing upstairs at the Miner's Theatre for the very first time with my friend Anna, who had drug me along to this thing in the first place, and the director was explaining that we (these two young girls) were going to be playing some of Joseph's brothers since there was a general shortage of male actors.

In the corner of the room were a bunch of large balls that were painted to look like planets.  Upon hearing the announcement that the production had gained some "Undercover Brothers" (as we came to be known), Mark turned around, picked up two of these planets and, holding them in front of him at waist level, announced, "Here, these should help!" before bursting into the uncontrollable laugh that I've come to know so well over the years.

And that was how I met the love of my life.  With a joke about balls.

My first impression, therefore, probably should have been abject horror, or at least embarrassed amusement.  It should definitely not have been the real-life equivalent of the emoji with hearts for eyes.

I don't know if it was the unselfconscious laughter, the terrible humor, or the big... er, planets, but I was instantly smitten.

Mark frequently tells me I'm crazy for being in love with him.  To be honest, after reviewing the above evidence, he may have a point.

But this time?  I'm sticking with my first impression.

The Pretty Vintage Girl Anniversary Blog

I've hit two milestones in blog-dom, all in the same week!

First: last week's engagement blog was the most well-and-widely read to date, topping out at just shy of 420 views!  I am, quite frankly, a little flabbergasted.  And pretty convinced it will be hard to ever reach similar numbers.  It's not every day I get engaged, after all.  (So far, just twice, and I hope to keep it that way.)

Second: I've been blogging for a year! July 10th marked my one-year blog-iversary.  That baby of a blog was written as I was coming off celebrating a year since my ex-husband moved out and as I was still decidedly new at working full-time for Fish Eye Fun.  It was short and hesitant and I obviously had no idea what I was doing.  It was the literary equivalent of me sticking a toe in the water to see how cold it was.  I had no idea what this blog would be.

And really, I still don't.

Because I don't think I ever would have dreamed that I would write about what I have in this past year.  My original vision for my blog was something much more frivolous and superficial because I didn't think I could possibly talk about the truth.  Talking about shopping and clothes and books would be much easier, and surely more accessible.  After all, who would want to hear about my life week after week?  I'm not that exciting.  I'm a divorced introvert who still carries far too much baggage for her own liking.  I work all the time and spend the rest of the time with my boyfriend.  What's readable about that?

I never thought I'd be able to keep up with blogging every week (well, almost every week).  I definitely didn't think my boyfriend (fiancé, whatever) would be going around passing out my blog address to everyone on his route!  I didn't think people I knew in passing would comment or reach out to me after something I wrote.

So.  One year later.

What's changed?

Obviously, I'm engaged.

And obviously I've been gainfully employed for over a year.

But also, it's been two years since my ex moved out.

I've destroyed my wedding dress.

I got a new furnace, bought a washer and dryer, bought a mattress, and fixed my car.

I went to Mexico.

I turned 31.

I've been spending my free weekends playing step-mommy. And enjoying it more than I ever thought I would, to be honest.

I've eaten a lot of nachos.  I've read not-enough books.  I've gained new friends and lost some who were apparently never really friends to begin with.  I've traveled back and forth across the Midwest, both for work and for fun.  I've gone to a few shows, and tried to be as social as I can.  I've been unapologetic about my life and what I want to do or not do.

A lot happens in a year.  I'm not the person I was a year ago, in many ways.  I'm snarkier, happier, friendlier, and more honestly... me.  I'm less willing to put up with bullshit.  I like the person I am, and I like where this year has led.

Where things are going from here?  I have absolutely no idea.

As I said, I'm still not entirely certain where this blog is going.  I rarely know what I'm going to blog about from one week to the next, much less what I'll be talking about in another year.

As for me?  There are obviously a lot of changes on the horizon.  Right now I'm still getting used to this sharp, shiny ring on my finger and we're not even remotely discussing an actual date.  I have absolutely no idea what the next year will hold, but I know that I'm definitely looking forward to whatever it is!

I'll be sure to write about it, naturally.  And you're welcome to read along, if you like!

A Pretty Nautical Engagement

I honestly can't say that I don't have anything to blog about this weekend, because, well...

I got engaged!

If you've been following along, you know that this past weekend was our first "vacation" together to Chicago.  What you didn't know (and neither did I), was that Mark spent much longer getting ready for our trip than I did.

While I was at work last week, he spent two days building a tiny treasure chest to put the ring in and drawing a "map" to ask me to marry him.  During this time, he obviously couldn't tell me what he was working on, so when I'd ask he'd be uncharacteristically vague and evasive.  He was "working on some old projects," or "running an errand."  Usually these statements would be followed by a description of what he was working on or what he needed to run an errand for.  We tell each other pretty much everything that happens during our day.  Not this week.

Luckily, I was too worried with getting everything ready for the weekend to be overly concerned about why my boyfriend was acting abnormally.

He was also overly concerned with what there was to do on Navy Pier and spent a whole night perusing the Pier's website.  And he wanted to make sure we had "time to ourselves" at Navy Pier before my friends joined us.  My friend Anne asked if there was going to be a romantic lakeside engagement.

I was still somehow oblivious.

It's not that I didn't know there would, eventually, be a proposal.  After all, I'd picked out the ring a few months back.  We've talked about wanting to be married since before I was even divorced.  So it wasn't exactly a surprise.

Except that he made certain that it was most definitely a surprise.

We got to Chicago on Friday and found our way to Navy Pier.  We went in a few shops.  In the first one, Mark found something for his daughter, then told me to go outside and see where the bathrooms were.  That was weird, but I didn't question him too much.  I figured he was just stressed from the trip up.

In the next shop, a nautical-themed store I wanted to go in, I found a pirate-themed coffee mug.  He headed for the register and told me to go look at T-shirts in the other part of the store.  If you know anything about me, you know that I'm really not interested at all in many T-shirts, but I thought he just wanted to make sure I didn't try to pay for the coffee mug.  (Unbeknownst to me, he was juggling around the bag with the treasure chest in it.)

We went upstairs to this beautiful Crystal Garden area, which was (of course) set up for a wedding.  Mark suggests we go sit down on a bench.

At this point, it kicks in.  Omg, he's going to propose.

We sit down, he pulls out the bag from the nautical shop, reaches in... and pulls out a little treasure chest that he's clearly bought, because it's wrapped in cellophane and actually has a price tag on it.

Oh.  Okay.  He's not proposing.  He just bought me something else at the store.  That's cool.

So we open the box.  It's wrapped in a chain necklace and bracelet with nautical charms.  He opens the lid.  "Look," he says, "There's a paper in here."  I pick up the folded paper, still completely unaware, and underneath it is the ring.

That sneaky, sneaky bastard.

Of course, I said, "Aye."

(Meanwhile, the wedding band starts warming up by playing, "All You Need Is Love."  Because why wouldn't the band play a song from one of my favorite movies of all time right at the moment I say yes to the love of my life?)

I can say that this was definitely my favorite proposal.  I honestly can't think of anything else more perfect.

It's almost like he knows me. (In fact, he knows me so well that he made sure to make it look like the ring we bought was still wrapped up in the box he was storing it in after getting it cleaned, just in case I went checking for it.  Which, of course, I had thought about doing.)

I'm also enjoying being engaged a lot more this time around!  In spite of the annoying "just got engaged" questions (no, we don't have a date), it's already going so much better than the last time.  My parents are happy, our friends are happy, and I'm sure one day I'll stop admiring my own hand.

Obviously, this isn't my first rodeo.  Some people have even said that they didn't think I'd ever get married again after what I went through the first time around.  And I suppose that's fair.  Because if it weren't for Mark, I don't think I would.  I don't think I'd risk it for anyone else.

But.  Risk it I'm going to.  And I think it's completely worth it.

Besides, how could I say no to the most perfectly nautical proposal ever?

Along with getting unexpectedly engaged, we were total tourists in Chicago.  I saw several old friends, we took lots of public transportation (and got a little lost), ate Chicago food, and went to the Field Museum.  All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good vacation.

And I've got a really, really good souvenir.

My Uniquely Common Life

We are all special little snowflakes.

Or are we?

I'm bringing this up because I just finished reading Judy Blume's Wifey two days ago.  It's been sitting on my shelf for years after I bought it on impulse at a used book store.  For some reason, I picked it up for a quick read on Sunday.  It obviously was a quick read, as I finished it Monday.  Besides being far dirtier of a book than I ever imagined, it also was another in a long list of books that I can relate to a little too much.  Believe me, I didn't expect this summer fluff of a book to hit me the way it did.

In Wifey, main character Sandy is exactly what the title says: the perfect little 1960s housewife.  She makes the same thing for dinner every week, has sex with her husband on Saturdays whether she wants to or not, is desperately unhappy, and has a very dirty mind.  She feels trapped in a marriage to a man she's not sure she ever loved and who doesn't understand her unhappiness or care to change anything about their marriage.  Her husband can't cook for himself, dictates how she should dress, is disappointed when she doesn't live up to his standards, and uses the phrase "wifely duties" quite seriously.

Basically, she was me, pre-divorce.  I found myself exceedingly grateful that I hadn't read Wifey while I was still married.  It would have been far too depressing.

But it's not the first time I've found myself reading a book that hit close to home in all the wrong ways, a book that gave voice to my very private despairs and desires.

Obviously, unhappy marriages are far from unique.  Even though Leo Tolstoy wrote that "happy families are all alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way," I'm not really sure he was correct.  Still, I'm continually amazed when a book (or song or movie) perfectly echoes something I've already thought or said.  Shouldn't I at least have my own unique thoughts about what I've been through, about my own unique experiences?

Apparently not.

The longer I live and the more I see, the more convinced I am that there truly is nothing new under the sun.  There are only seven different plotlines.  There are no original ideas.  Think you've done something unique?  Think again.  Someone is amazed by your brand new thought?  Don't get too excited; someone else already thought of it years ago.  Someone is shocked and appalled by something you did?  Don't feel so bad; someone else has already been there and done that long before you had the idea.

Songs, movies, and books all resonate with us because they speak to our own personal experience.  We relate to these things on deep, intimate levels.  But these things also speak to hundreds and thousands of other people's own personal, intimate experiences.  Look around at a wedding, or a show, or a concert, or a bookstore.  You're not the only one singing along, or crying, or laughing, or reaching that book.

We all live some form or another of the "human experience," after all.  We have all loved and have all lost.  We've been overjoyed and we've been inconsolable.  It's what helps bring us together, recognize each other as human.  We may be different, but we are also recognizably the same.  I can talk to someone who has lived an entirely different life from me, who believes and values different things, and still relate to them, still find common ground.  I can read a book written over 30 years ago and feel like I'm quite possibly reading my own diary.  I can share some of my darkest secrets and have someone unexpectedly and shyly admit, "Me too."

I think it is the inability to see others as human, to actively share in that human experience, that leads to much of life's tragedies and pain.  It leads to the desire to control others, or to hurt others.  I know from experience that it's much easier to hate someone when you can solidly deny that you could possibly have anything in common with them.

Of course, we are not all cookie cutter copies of each other.   Not by a long shot. What fun would that be?  There would be no need for thousands of different books and movies and songs.  We are uniquely individual, in spite of our similarities.  We can experience the same events and feelings, true, but in different orders, with different people, in different places, with different consequences.  The things we create are different, even if not necessarily new or revolutionary.  And so we can keep telling the same stories over and over, the same seven plot lines.  People will keep reading.  Or watching.  Or listening.

Because we can keep relating to each other, story after story.  We're not alone.  We've been there, in one way or another, even when that means being able to relate far too much to an incredibly dirty Judy Blume book.

Revealing Selfies

Thanks to Timehop and Facebook's "On This Day," I see a lot of my past Facebook posts and pictures.  There's obviously a lot less photos of me from years ago, because smart phones weren't around.  I didn't even have a iPhone of my own until about two years ago, so most of the photos I took before then have been lost to dead phones.

Therefore, when interesting old photos of me show up in my Timehop, I usually share them.  I've recently reshared a photo from my college graduation, from a year I worked at Show Me Burlesque Festival, and from my first adventure with Katie to see the BatTumbler.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B

Mark and I were sitting at the table having dinner the other day when he said, "I was noticing how young you look in all those Timehop photos."  And he didn't mean that I didn't have the, ahem, smile lines that I do now.  He meant that I just looked so much younger even a few years ago than I do now, post-divorce.  Going through that half a year of hell aged me more than I might have expected, and the evidence is there in my selfies (and other photos).  I might dress the same and look the same (minus the occasional bangs), but there's a world of difference if you're looking for it.  I don't know if I'm actually older and wiser, but I at least look like I've lived far more now than I did before.

The other difference is how noticeably happier I look in my newer photos.  And it's not just one difference.  It's countless differences.  My smiles are bigger now, my eyes are wider and brighter, and my whole way of posing has changed, which is something I didn't even notice until Mark pointed it out.  Starting from right before I got married until shortly after my ex moved out, my chin started to drop in photos.  My head is tucked down in most posed photos.  I'm rarely looking directly into a camera, more peering at it almost suspiciously from under my eyebrows.  I frequently look vaguely uncomfortable.  I seem to be hiding.

Really, I was hiding.

I was hiding the fact that I was miserable, the fact that I'd made a very big mistake by insisting on marrying a person I just felt like I could tolerate.  I was hiding from the inevitable truth, from the lies, from the dodged questions about how I was doing and how great married life was.  I was hiding from the depression that thoroughly knocked me on my ass almost immediately after the wedding.  I was hiding from the near constant thought during the first two years of my marriage that I would come home to find my husband had killed himself.  I was hiding from a life that I was only half-living.

Looking over my Facebook photos today, I can pretty easily pick out the times when I was more genuinely happy, just by how I look in the photo.  Then I can place the picture to the event and realize that it was something that my ex wasn't at, or someplace where I had drank a lot.  Or both.  Usually both.

I thought I was doing a good job.  I thought I was happy.  I was smiling, wasn't I?  That meant I was having fun.  Everything was fine.  Now, looking back, I can see I wasn't hiding anything if I had cared to look for it.  In spite of my colorful vintage outfits and red hair, I didn't want people to really see me.  Because they might see the truth.  And that would have been terrible.

Now?  Obviously, I don't have much to hide anymore.  And I take a lot more selfies (both for work and for fun).  Now, as Mark said, even if I'm not grinning ear to ear in all of them, I look more confident in who I am and what my place in the world is.  I'm not hiding.

The past several years have taught me a lot about who I am and what actual happiness was.  Which is a good thing, since I think I had almost forgotten.

I'll be keeping an eye on my selfies, though, since they apparently reveal a lot more than I ever could have imagined.

So far, I think I'm still doing good.

Exhibit C, smile lines and all.

Seeing Art vs. Being Art

It's an unusual feeling to have a stranger ask to take your picture.

Sometimes it's expected, like at Comic Con when everyone is dressed in costume and taking pictures of everyone else. Or when I'm dressed to the nines (or in rather less than the nines) for a pole or burlesque show.

But when I'm walking around Art on the Square with my boyfriend and his daughter, wearing my favorite pair of jeggings and a vintage top?  It's not usually something I'm expecting.

Yet, there she was, an adorable little newspaper photographer from the St. Louis Post Dispatch, telling me she just loved my outfit and asking if she could take picture of me looking at the various art vendors.

Obviously, my vanity knows no bounds, so getting gushing compliments on my outfit from a  photographer and a request for essentially a mini-photoshoot went straight to my head.  And made me incredibly self-conscious.  I couldn't pose in my usual stance of hand on hip/one knee bent, after all.  How do I look natural?  Was I standing up straight?  Should I smile?  I wish I had lipstick on. What the hell do I do with my hands?

A few days later, there I was online, looking not-too-shabby and pensively considering some appropriately modern art that I wouldn't mind one bit actually owning. (I definitely want the piece behind me in the photo!)

Photo by Cristina M. Fletes of the St. Louis Post Dispatch

It's not the first time my world has crossed over into art.  A few years ago, during a particularly chaotic time of our lives, Mark and I spent the day at the St Louis Art Museum.  It was one of several turning points in our lives and, even though we didn't know what to do, we knew we wanted to spend the day together.  So we ended up at the Art Museum, wandering around looking at art and holding onto each other.

At one point, we were sitting on a bench in the modern art wing, silently entangled with each other for so long that a group of women came up and told us that they had thought we were art.

All this makes me wonder... what does it take to be art?  If I qualify, then it certainly isn't being flawless, since I can never at any point claim to be that.  In the photo above, my hair is windblown, I don't have lipstick on, and I'm nervously touching my hair because I know I'm being photographed.  In everyday life, my hair is usually falling out of its curls before the day is halfway over.  Sometimes my makeup is smeared, my lipstick is worn off, my shoes are scuffed, or I'm in desperate need of my hair being dyed.

In the first season of Mad Men, Betty Draper imparts some of her mother's insane words of wisdom on how to present yourself to the world.  "You're painting a masterpiece," she says. "Make sure to hide the brushstrokes."  In other words: be flawless.  Don't make a mistake.  Don't have a hair out of place.  Don't let anyone know something is wrong.

This is not my motto.  (At least, not anymore.)

I don't spend hours every day on my appearance.  While I rarely leave the house without makeup, I have the application down to a five-minute science.  I don't touch it up throughout the day.  I don't stare at myself in my compact when I'm out at a bar with friends to make sure each detail is perfect.  I have better things to do, really.  Like living.

Do I get a lot of comments and compliments on how I look?  Yes.  Usually several a day.  But I think that's because I wear things that make me happy and not because I'm as perfect as a pin-up.  I usually dress to please myself, not others.  (This has, as I've discussed, taken many forms over the years.)  And maybe the fact that I'm happy in what I'm wearing makes other happy as well.

Maybe that's what being art is.  Maybe that's what art is.   It's getting a reaction, whether it's making others happy or triggering another emotion. It's reminding others of how they or their parents used to dress or look.  It's standing out from the crowd.  With this hair, that's hard not to do.

My favorite art has always made me feel, or reminded me of something.  Mark and I talk a lot about art we see and how some of it is simply flat and doesn't make us feel anything at all.  But then there is the art that I'm physically drawn to, the stuff that makes me want to reach out and touch it, be a part of it.  It's not always the perfect art, either.  But there's something to it that pings at my subconscious and makes me react.

That's the kind of art I want to be, the kind of life I want to live.

I'm not painting a masterpiece.  Maybe from a distance, or to the untrained observer, it looks perfect.  But close up? There are brushstrokes everywhere.  There's rookie mistakes and smudges and wrong color choices.  There's whole sections I'd like to whitewash over.  Most artists would toss out the canvas and start over.

But I'm enjoying the hell out of my life, mistakes and all.  It makes me laugh, it makes me cry, and it makes me feel more emotions than I ever thought possible.

So I guess that's art, in a way.  And I, for one, think it's beautiful.