Once upon a time–six years ago–I dated someone who lived 735 miles away. I visited San Francisco often that year, usually hopping on a plane every other weekend for another adventure. I was fresh back into the dating scene after a tumultuous marriage and dragged-out divorce and an every-other-weekend boyfriend was perfect for me. We talked on the phone every night, sent emails and texts, and I was able to learn how to be myself again while exploring this new relationship in a very healthy-for-me-at-the-time way. The relationship ran it’s course, we had an amicable break-up and went our separate ways.
Fast forward to now.
Unbeknownst to the Internet At Large, for more than a year J-Mo and I have been in a long distance relationship. I live in Salt Lake City, he has been working in Middle Of Nowhere, Nevada. He works for a large civil engineering firm/general contractor that has projects like roads and pipelines and power lines in several western states. For a while he was only 250 miles away, a short(ish) 4-hour commute. But as the project he is working on has progressed, that commute has lengthened to 425 miles. Six-and-a-half hours. Each way. Since we started dating last February, with very few exceptions, I have only ever seen J-Mo on the weekend. He is managing this big project in Nevada that was originally scheduled to be complete in October. Last October. Then it was November. Then January. Then March. I should stress this delay is not faulty management on his part, it has everything to do with at least a dozen sub-contractors and environmental nazi’s with little regard to how their mistakes and delays can quickly cause delays on a massive scale and keep me husband-less 4-5 nights a week. Jerks.
This is something I felt really strongly I should not blog about, because the last thing I want to blab all over the internet is that I am home alone most evenings. Or even that my home is vacant most evenings as I am out with friends. I mean, even if I included a (fake) picture of my ferocious (fake) guard dog, or guard crocodile (also fake), it’s not wise to talk about such things.
I have tried really hard to be patient, flexible, understanding and to keep any complaints to myself with marginal success. That being said, these last few months have been particularly hard. The dragging on and on has taken a serious toll on both J-Mo and I. I know I have blurted out my woes to a few of you via email and gchat, and you have been remarkably sympathetic and kind. I didn’t think I would have this hard of a time adjusting. When I was finishing up my last semester at the University, I had a roommate and her fiancé and, literally, scores of single friends with whom to socialize. I found that I missed J-Mo, but could easily find a homework assignment or social distraction for a couple of nights until he came back into town. I am still trying to find where lies the appropriate line that distinguishes hanging out with my friends, and crashing a single’s only party. It’s one thing if it’s my girlfriends or my male BFF that I am hanging out with in the evening, but it’s another story entirely to regularly show up, alone, to single’s bash with several ex-boyfriends also in attendance, you know? I know a few married couple’s that I can always hang out with, but there is the awkward–usually only for me–bit about being the third wheel. It’s been a tricky transition, one for which I was entirely unprepared. Somewhere in-between the hustle to finish my last classes and exams, to relax and enjoy the Christmas holidays in Montana, and then turn around and plan a wedding I kind of forgot about the part the week after our ceremony where we would both go back to work. Me in Salt Lake, him in Nevada.
Oh.
Right.
Dammit.
I find myself scrambling/floundering to adjust to a lot more empty apartment than I had really prepared for and hours of free time I could hardly imagine as I struggled through studying for finals and managing wedding preparations.
It’s been really hard. On a regular basis the long-distance marriage thing feels like a hole in the heart, but sometimes it hurts so much it is, literally, difficult to breathe.
I can’t tell you how many times I have had to bite my tongue when I hear someone complain about their spouse working long hours. “Yes, but you still get to see him more than 2 or 3 nights a week.” When someone complains of a long commute and how it cuts into quality time with their partner or family, I have to quickly leave the room make an imaginary phone call. “Yes, but that commute is a daily one, not a weekly one.” Listening to someone complain about the three day business trip once a quarter makes me roll my eyes (usually only on the inside, thank goodness). “Three days? Are you kidding me? Try a week at a time, every week, for a year.” I am not proud of these thoughts, and I’m not writing them all down to try and somehow paint myself as a martyr or garner sympathy. I’m just being real and honest. The problem is that these acidic thoughts don’t make coping any easier and certainly don’t make me a better person. To my credit, I haven’t verbalized these thoughts, at least not to those who innocently and unwittingly incite them. Instead, I go home and cry, curled up in a suddenly too big and too cold bed by myself with my phone cradled to my ear.
He’s going the distance,
He’s going for speed
She’s all alone, all alone in her time of need.
The rest of the song may be inapplicable, but Cake has that part spot on the money.
The somewhat redeeming part of all of this is that I have had the opportunity (and–gold star for me–have taken advantage of it) to try a dozen different things to keep myself busy and my mind occupied. I have been going to lectures at the city library. I started my own photography challenge and signed up for a few photography classes at a local camera shop. I have renewed my efforts in the kitchen to include more homemade meals and less eating out. I have earmarked a couple of courses in the continuing education catalog to check out. I have been reading voraciously, and even started a book club. I have made a serious dent on some of the long-put-off projects that are waiting for me in little piles around our apartment. I have tried very, very hard not to decorate J-Mo’s “man cave.” It’s his space and he probably wouldn’t appreciate my taking it over to try my hand at another gallery wall or furniture arrangement. Or anything involving vinyl lettering. Or glitter. So far, his “cave” has remained as he leaves it every Sunday, although I can promise nothing for the long haul.
This week our long-distance marriage will end, which is not to say the marriage part will end, quite the contrary, in fact. This week the long-distance part of our long-distance marriage will finally be over. The project, or at least J-Mo’s role in it, is done. J-Mo is coming home.
In some ways I feel like that means the day-to-day part of our marriage is just beginning. We’ve been married for months, but I am suddenly nervous about living with him, you know, in the “7-days a week” kind of way, i.e. the “normal” way. I’m 87% ecstatic that he’ll be a one-residence kind of man, and that it will be our residence; simultaneously, I am 13% terrified that he won’t like living with me, that my much-needed puttering will annoy him, that my projects and piles will drive him crazy, that I’ll always burn the dinner and forget about the laundry and that, ultimately, he’d rather be in Middle of Nowhere, Nevada without electricity or running water. (I said I was terrified, not rational.) My concerns have been nagging a bit for several months, but with no end date in sight for so long it was easy to push them away as irrational. Or, at the very least, something to worry about when the time came.
The time is here. And I’m worrying.
Unfortunately, the well meaning assurance that it will all be okay has only made me feel like my concerns and worries are somehow invalid and unimportant and need not be fully addressed; that’s kind of the opposite sentiment a sympathetic friend is trying to convey.
Therapists and psychologists say that recognition of irrational behavior is the first step. But just because I can see the paradox doesn’t suddenly make me rational about the problem at hand. Tragically, when you, or he, reassuringly tell me that I’m making my way into CrazyTown and shouldn’t worry; that it’s not a big deal, people live with their husbands all the time and it works out; or that it will be just fine, I don’t feel better. (Technically, according to the U.S. Census bureau, it only works out 50% of the time, and that’s hardly a strong statistical argument to make me feel better.)
But, all that being said, the last few days of near-crippling worry will be met head on tonight by a bear hug from J-Mo. I predict that he will be able to kiss the worry right off in no time and in a few days I’ll shake my head and sigh at this spinning, scary place. Tonight J-Mo will be here, and he won’t be leaving again for quite a while. On Sunday J-Mo and I will spend the evening together instead of me stuffing my feelings into a pint of frozen yogurt while he drives back to Nevada. On Monday morning he will make the jaunty 1-hour commute to his company’s local office and—and this is the best part—on Monday night he will come home to me, eat dinner with me, and snuggle me to sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Halle-freaking-lujah!
You’ve been faced with problems that seem to have very simple solutions, right? And you’ve seen people faced with those same problems who somehow cannot comprehend the simple solution, right? Have you seen them struggle with something they are making much harder than it needs to be? Have you been that struggling person yourself? I know I have. The thing is there are some solutions that are so incredibly simple that it is irrational-bordering-on-insanity not to understand them and then utilize that understanding!
The concept of “good communication” in a relationship is one of those things.
Is it necessary?
Yes. Absolutely necessary.
Is it hard?
Usually, yes, it is kind of hard.
Do all versions of “good communication in a relationship” look exactly the same? Of course not. But it is essential that you figure out what form you need, and also–just as importantly–you figure out what your partner needs as well.
Good communication is not gossiping or passive-aggressive jabs or hints. Good communication requires honesty, vulnerability, directly approaching a topic or a person and simply stating what you want or need and asking for something to change. Written out like that it doesn’t seem like it should be that difficult, although for many of us (myself included) it isn’t something that comes naturally. Clear, open, non-passive-aggressive communication can be really hard.
Once upon a time I had a very strict rule that went something like this:
If someone says or does something that truly hurts my feelings or in any significant way upsets me, I have exactly seven days to bring the incident to light and come to a resolution. If I cannot do such a simple thing, after seven days I am no longer allowed to use that incident as ammunition, or refer to it as a grievance, and must let go immediately. I will not be one to hold grudges.
For quite some time the seven-day rule seemed to work just fine. After a few years it became the three-day rule, although these days I try to play by the 24-hour rule with varying levels of success. I will never be the kind of person who can resolve a big, emotional conflict on the spot. I just don’t have the emotional control to be rational and reasonable while I am hurting. I know this about myself and I refuse to indulge that ugly side of me–the temper-tantrum side who says things she doesn’t mean and then can’t take back. I refuse to give that version of me any more control than she already holds. That doesn’t mean I run away from a hairy conversation, it simply means that I give myself a little breathing room and time to calm down, and will then address the issue at hand. Lately I’ve learned to tell whomever it is I’m talking with when I will be ready to address it. It’s perfectly okay to say “Hey, I’m feeling really emotional about this, I’m going to take a walk and we’ll talk about it when I get back.” Or, “Um, I need to get my thoughts into some kind of order, can we talk about this tomorrow?” Or even “Wow, this is a lot for me, I’m gonna take 20 minutes and go have a double-fudge banana split with whipped cream and we’ll get back into this after that.” IT IS PERFECTLY OKAY TO SAY/REQUEST/DEMAND THAT! (Seriously, why don’t more people say that?) (Also, the banana split totally helps.)
Not long ago I spent a couple of very emotional days with a frightened friend. An old friend and a really amazing woman. The source of the emotional turbulence, and the fear, was from a complete and utter breakdown of communication in her relationship. I have been through the ringer in relationships, but her experience was eye-opening to me. I realized that it is possible to fall in love with someone and choose to spend your life with them and wake up, several years later, to a complete stranger. It is possible to not have the slightest idea of how to talk to your partner. I was shocked. Is this something that I take for granted? Have I ever taken it for granted? What if I am spiraling into a Non-Communication Hole and am completely unaware?
I decided that in my own relationships–romantic and otherwise–I needed to double my efforts to understand and be understood. Patience will be tested. Questions (thousands of questions) will be asked and asked again. Hearts will be bruised. Frustrations and tears will undoubtedly make a mess of my mascara. But dammit, I’m going to make sure I’m clear. I will only say things that I mean. I will ask the hard questions. I will not assume. I will not play a passive-aggressive game, hoping someone will be able to interpret it correctly. I will make sure that whoever is the second party in my conversations understands what I mean before letting a subject drop.
And when the conversation is settled on both sides, the subject will drop.
**Things are just fine with J-Mo and I, I’ve been thinking about this post for months and wanted to take a little break from the barrage of photos from the last two weeks.
We finally have wedding photos back, and I have spent several hours scrolling through all 1,600 of them. Yes, that’s right, 1,600. Stacy from Three Winks Studio did a fantastic job and I absolutely love these images. Don’t worry, I’m not including all sixteen-hundred here, just a small selection of my favorites. This will probably be two or three posts, so I hope you can hang in there for the next week or so.
The Ceremony
The White Memorial Chapel is one of the oldest buildings in Salt Lake and only holds about 100 people. It was not packed, but with only a few exceptions, everyone who mattered was there.
My Dad, Lurch, acted as officiant at the ceremony. This meant much more to me than him walking me down the aisle. I’m not all that traditional, as this post will quickly show. No processional, no white dress, no veil, no bridesmaids–well, not exactly–and no reception. For J-Mo and I, it was perfect.
Two of my tiny bridesmaids, there were seven in total, ranging in age from 3 months to 8 years old. My sister, Pink Suede Shoe, made all those little dresses with the emerald green sashes. They were absolutely perfect.
The pint-sized groomsmen, and my oldest niece. We also had seven groomsmen, increasing in height in near perfect intervals from the three year old to my tallest nephew.
The dress, I am still completely in-love with it.
Yep, that’s a leopard-print belt. Told you I wasn’t traditional.
You knew this picture was coming, right?
My best friend, Josh, did a reading of this poem. I laughed, I cried, it was perfect.
J-Mo and I wrote our own vows, I am a little hesitant to share them here as they are so very personal. We promised to love, support and cherish each other for the rest of forever, the end. (In actuality, it was a lot more than that, it was lovely, we both had tears (and I’m told so did half the audience)…although, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that. Sorry, babe. Tears at your own wedding is super manly, pinky promise.)
I can’t get enough of that face.
Lurch said some more, lovely things here. Again, far too personal for the internet at large, but rest assured they were lovely.
J-Mo, you may kiss your bride. And just like that, two became one, bigger and greater than the sum of our parts.
I’m getting married on Friday. Things are mostly ready and completed, and the things that aren’t I have chosen not to worry about. I have enough stress in my life without freaking out over centerpieces or the perfect color of emerald green. I meant to write a deep, satisfying ballad about the things I have loved so much about being single, and why I will miss them. But instead, I present you with this spider’s web of relationships that I have tried to navigate. I made this over a year ago, I finally feel like the connections, friendships and break-ups are old enough that I can publish this here without causing a firestorm, I have combined a few people into one box on one or two occasions, so if you find yourself on this map and are offended, it’s probably because your box is half-full of someone else’s drama. All the names are completely fictitious, and resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. However, the relationships as indicated by the various colored lines and circles are accurate. Go ahead and click on that. I double-dog dare you. (No, it’s not a virus, it’s just a detailed map of CraZyTown!)
Things to note:
-
My best friend “Justin” is still roommates with my ex-sort-of-boyfriend “Bradley” and was also roommates with a previous ex-boyfriend “Bryce*.” (*My roommate just married Bryce, but the REAL Bryce, not this made-up one that I created months and months ago to help document my frustrations with dating from a very
smallconnected pool.) - I found one of my best friends, “Arietta” after we both dated, and subsequently broke up with, the same jerk, “Dave”.
- I dated “Joseph”, who was the ex-boyfriend of “Felicity”, my dear friend “Grace’s” roommate. When I started dating Joseph, Felicity immediately stopped talking to me, even though she broke up with him. Multiple times. (Grace and I became friends after Bradley (see above) broke both our hearts.)
- Yes, there are always some awkward, tense moments at parties, and yes, we all still attend many of the same parties.
This is a very small part of a large circle of friends and acquaintances and friends-of-friends, but you can rest assured that any small sample of that circle will bring you the same kind of tangled mess of relationships, both then, and perhaps even more so now. I am sure married life will bring it’s own set of tangled, messy problems. And perhaps in another year I will draw another road map to illustrate, but for now I am thrilled to be leaving behind all the drama but still maintaining the dear friendships I have made (as denoted by the purple BFF circles, obviously.)
This post was written in segments over the last few months.
September 26, 2011
For a few weeks now J-Mo and I have been talking about getting married. It’s been a half-whispered dream-idea that has been bounced around a little without really sticking on any given conversation. It’s been giggled about, smiled about, insinuated and dreamed about. But it hasn’t been delved into too much in any given conversation. Until yesterday. On a beautiful, sunny afternoon drive J-Mo and I started talking fairly seriously about spending the rest of our lives together. We were listening to some of our favorite country love-songs (yes, now I listen to AND enjoy country music. I know. It surprises me too), we both giggled and smiled and asked half-believing questions that mostly came out as “Really? I mean, really?” I may have blushed a bit and I definitely swooned. But, admittedly, I was also a little nervous. Not about J-Mo, I want nothing more than to be with him, to love him, to grow old with him. I want to come home to him and have him come home to me, I want to take care of him and I love how passionate he is about taking care of me. But getting married? That’s a big deal. And I was perhaps a little more nervous about the conversation than I thought I’d be.
Even so, we curled up on the couch that evening and started exploring some logistics and asking more questions and trying to get a better understanding of what we were both feeling. The nervousness was still there, but only incidentally. This morning any lingering nervousness is gone. This is the man I will marry and I couldn’t be more excited about it. (And yes, perhaps a bit nervous about the “Wow, this is only the biggest decision you will make in your love life, no pressure!” but that’s normal, right?)
October 2, 2011
J-Mo told his parents that we are looking at January for a wedding. I could hear his mom squeal through the phone. I am excited and happy and (reportedly) a little more glowy than usual, but I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel SuperExtraRidiculouslyOverTheTop EXCITED!!!11!! In the last few months I have come to the decision that I just want to be with J-Mo, I want to spend my life with him. Sometimes I get all teary when I think about it. But I am not squealing or obnoxious, I am just here, happy, like I have been for months. It seems like a natural progression to me, nothing completely out of the blue, it’s not a surprise, it’s just the obvious next step. In talking with my recently engaged friend, A., I expressed a little concern because I wondered if I wasn’t giddy enough, if there was something wrong because I wasn’t bouncing off the walls and telling anyone who would listen. She talked me down from whatever ledge I’d left myself on and reminded me that it was perfectly normal I was more excited about spending my life with someone (the marriage part) instead of jumping up and down over the idea of a gorgeous white dress and a towering fondant cake (the wedding part). I couldn’t care less about the white dress or the towering fondant cake. Or the flowers. Or the invitations. Or the food. Or the favors. Or the 5,389 other “required!” bits of weddingism that I will be skipping over completely. I don’t want a reception, or a big fluffy white dress, or fancy-pants announcements or flowers or monogrammed cocktail napkins. I just want to be married.
October 8, 2011
Even though I don’t have a ring yet, I introduced J-Mo to an old friend I rarely get to see as “my fiance.” And then I squee’d. “Fiance.” As in, pre-cursor-to-husband. (Husband…wow. I’m going to have a husband.) (Which leads one to presume I will also be a wife…Wife.) (My mind is exploding with both of these, I thought “fiance” was exciting, the husband-wife thing is making me light headed.) (Yes, I have thought this out, but usually in terms like “I will be with him forever.” and “We’re going to grow old together.” Both of which sound lovely and are true, but adding that husband-wife–eep! there it is again!–label is a whole new level of…something. Commitment? Happiness? Labeling? I’m not sure, but it brings a new level of squee.) (/parantheticals.)
October 15, 2011
We went ring shopping this afternoon; I have never done this before and am a bit overwhelmed by all the sparkle and shine and by how little I actually know about real jewelry. Also, the idea that J-Mo and I are actually getting hitched is starting to set in. I am giddy for no reason. I smile constantly. I am experiencing some kind of never-talked-about “nesting” phase where I want to clear out half of my apartment to make room for him. (My roommate is getting married in December, so I will politely wait until she moves out before I start measuring her bedroom and dreaming up new furniture arrangements.) (Except I’m already dreaming up new furniture arrangements. Sorry, D.) J-Mo wants to surprise me with a ring, so we mostly shopped around to find what I like and what I don’t. Turns out, I like white gold or platinum, art deco styling, princess-cut/square diamonds, a lot of filigree and pave diamonds. I don’t so much care about carat weight or the size of a center stone. I mostly want it flat on my finger.
October 16, 2011
I am going to marry this man. Cue: ridiculous amounts of swoony-ness. Apparently the giddy swoontastic feelings that were missing when J-Mo and I first started talking about getting married have hit me full force. Or, at least two-thirds force. It’s good for my soul that I am more and more twitterpated though; “twitterpated” is not a normal state of being for me, but I think it’s a good look. I am still dreading the idea of actually planning a wedding. My swooniness ALL comes from the idea of being with J-Mo, of being married to him. When I think about the stress and energy and money of a wedding I actually get a little queasy. I just want to be married. If I had my druthers we’d email our families and let them know what time to show up at the court house and then go have Mexican food afterwards. (Wait, can I actually do that? I can, right? Right?)
October 29, 2011
J-Mo went to talk to my Dad today. I am a bit anti-traditional in most aspects of my life, but the more I think about this the more I love that J-Mo had a man-to-man conversation with him about his intentions. Over the last couple of years Lurch has been such a tremendous support to me, the last 5 years have been pretty rough–tedious jobs, unemployment, tough breaks, horrible car accident, bad boyfriends–and my Dad has made sure I knew he cared. He has picked me up, dusted me off, and cheered me on in countless ways and I can guarantee that without that parental love and support I would not be where I am right now. I’d probably be living in a cardboard box, charging a 10-cent admission to see my shoe collection. At any rate, I love that J-Mo went over to my Dad’s house and promised that he’d take care of me from now on. I love that J-Mo was nervous. I love that while my Dad didn’t give him a terribly hard time, he let him know what he expected. I know Lurch (and J-Mo) are very aware that I can and even prefer to take care of myself, but it is so sweet to me that they had a heart-to-heart conversation about making sure I was always okay. Perhaps this “Tradition” thing isn’t so bad after all.
…but I still don’t want a fluffy white dress.
November 3, 2011
I got a manicure, you know, just in case. And scheduled another for the next week, just in case. And also perhaps the week after that. I like to be prepared, okay?
November 5, 2011
J-Mo asked me to marry him in the sweetest possible way. I said “yes.”
In our super-cyber age there is no Emily Post directive on how to announce via a blog, Twitter, and/or Facebook that you are engaged. My guts told me that there was a cadre of family and close friends who deserved a visit, phone call, or email, and I tried to get that done before mentioning a thing about it online. I’ll take my gold star for Adulthood now, thank you. (On the off chance that you are still in the dark, um, Surprise! I’m engaged!) I have been completely overwhelmed with the collective Squee’s and Congrats’ and other expressions of happiness from around the Interwebs after publishing this post and the subsequent Twitter and Facebook announcements. Thank you for being happy and excited for me! For us! (I’m an “us!” I love that!)
Would you like the rest of the story? Why am I even asking this, of COURSE you want the rest of the story! If you didn’t you’d be checking ESPN or BoringStuff Weekly or something instead of reading this blog. If you don’t care about my One True Love asking me to be his for ever and ever…well, then you can clickity-click-click that little box in the corner of your screen with the “x” on it and go do something else. For the next 8-ish paragraphs it will be strictly Engagement Story.
Last Saturday was a fantastically relaxing day followed by a delicious afternoon nap. When we woke up I asked J-Mo if he wanted to make dinner at home or go out and grab something. We had a wedding reception to attend and as we would be all dressed up for that in the first place (new dress for me, new stripey shirt for him) he decided that we should definitely go out. It would be fun to be all gussied up and out to dinner, something we hadn’t done in quite a while. He took me to Sawadee, one of my favorite Thai restaurants and the dinner-location of our first date. We’ve been there several times since we met, so I didn’t think anything of it (although I did make a remark about how I was wearing the same pair of boots I had worn on our first date last February. Kismet? Providence? Pure awesome? You decide.) Dinner was delicious –and I didn’t shatter my water glass like I had the first time we dined there–the wedding reception was lovely, and as we were leaving he tells me that we have to be back downtown by 8:00 to go to a show. I asked him if we were going to a movie. “No.” A comedy show? “No.” Are you going to tell me? “No.” Okaaaaay, fine.
We ended up at the Planetarium for a laser show—also an activity from our first date—and I started to get a little suspicious. From the bathroom, I texted my roommate and my BFF that I thought I was on a duplicate of my first date with J-Mo, and something might happen, and that I was perhaps a little nervous, but mostly really excited. (Yes, J-Mo, that is why I was in there so long.You’re not the only one who can be sneaky.)
And nothing. He does nothing, says nothing, makes it all completely normal and unremarkable, just dinner and a show–it’s not like we haven’t done that a hundred times before–although with more snuggling and hand-holding and sweet little kisses than on our first date where there wasn’t any snuggling. After watching lasers and trippy graphics set to the tunes of Led Zeppelin we went to the same frozen yogurt place from our first date where I opted for a Nutella-banana crepe, thinking it would probably be the best part of the night (it was pretty amazing, but no, not the best part of the night). At this point I was positive that he was doing this whole “take you on our first date all over again” thing just to throw me off. I knew he had already had a man-to-man conversation with my Dad, but was unsure if he had a ring yet. I thought it would take at least another week for that to happen.
After chatting over frozen yogurt and Nutella I hypothesized (in my inside voice, not my outside voice) that if he were going to propose that night he would probably drive up to some lovely vantage point with a beautiful view of the city. Nope, we went back to my house like the end of any other date. Up the stairs, nothing happening, I was sure he was just being sneaky and would surprise me the next weekend with a proposal. I unlock my door and start thinking about changing into pajamas and busting out the DVR because clearly I am a hip, happening girl at 9:30 on a Saturday night. We get inside and I head towards my room to take off my shoes and find some yoga pants. He caught me by my arm, turned me back around and said “Hold on. Ten months ago when I dropped you off at the end of our first date I didn’t know what else to do, but I do now.”
And he pulled out the ring box he’d had in his pocket THE ENTIRE LIVE-LONG DAY! Not “date,” D-A-Y. All day long that thing had been hiding in his jacket and he didn’t say a WORD.
Sneaky McSneakerson.
J-Mo told me that this ring has been around a long time–we think it’s from the 1920′s but it could be earlier–and has stories that he will never know. It’s been through a depression and survived wars and hard times and who knows what else. He said he went back and forth trying to decide if he wanted to buy this antique ring, or get a shiny new one instead. Ultimately, he opted for the antique. It’s not perfect, there are some scratches and dents, and the diamond in the center has a chip in it. He could have had the scratches buffed out and the diamond replaced, but in the end decided to leave it as it was. It has character. Only a trained jeweler’s eye and a microscope would be able to pick out such flaws. He said, “The thing is, Heidi, you have your own scratches, dents, and even a few chips, and I know that you worry about being ‘broken.’ ” (It’s true, I do worry; it’s one of my greatest fears.) He continued: “But you’re not broken. When I look at you that’s not what I see, all I see is this gorgeous, perfect woman. And when you look at this ring, you don’t see the flaws, you just see something whole and incredibly beautiful. I want you to remember that is how I see you. I love you for who you are. I don’t have to know your back stories, I don’t need to have you re-live all that hurt; the important thing is that we start our own story, together. Just you and me.”
Then he got down on his knee and asked me to marry him, right there in my living room with all my mascara running down my teary face. (Note to self: buy waterproof mascara.) It was perhaps the sweetest moment of my entire life, and every time I glance down at my left hand I hear his voice telling me all those heart-melting things all over again. I’ve had permanent happy-tears, I’ve been smiling constantly, and I don’t remember ever being this happy and content.
I’m yours forever, my love.
The following questions and answers are part of my “Interview A Blogger”/”Please ask me questions to provide blog fodder” mini-series. I’ve tried to break up the questions into bigger categories and this is the last of them. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have!
Question: How old were you before you had your first boyfriend?
Answer: While I went out with a lot of people as a teenager I was actually already in college before I dated anyone seriously enough to call them my boyfriend. The relationship was kind of crappy and lasted far too long, and now that particular x-boyfriend is my cousin. Yep, true story, one that I’m sure has a moral but I’m too busy gagging over this x-boyfriend-is-my-cousin fact that I can’t think of it. Don’t worry, I’ve made up for a slower start in dating over the last decade with a double handful of relationships–some great, some bad, some down-right terrible–and thousands of dates. I feel like I’ve put in my time on the boyfriend front.
Question: Tell us about your first kiss. From Lisa at Books, Lists, Life.
Answer: My first kiss is really quite a boring story. I was 14 and my junior high had just put on a production of Anne Frank where I had really enjoyed being a stage manager and working on props and costumes. We were having a cast party after closing night where there were 4 boys and about 748 girls present; (most of) the girls were dead set on playing Spin the Bottle. This was the first, and last time I ever played Spin the Bottle. I don’t even know WHY people play Spin the Bottle. It’s a terrible idea. Spin the Bottle is just public kissing with people you probably don’t even like IN FRONT OF people you do like who now know you kissed someone else and so what if they don’t like you anymore? I mean, you know, if they even knew you existed in the first place. Who invented this game? Morons. That’s who. Anyway, I kissed B.A., another techie who was always nice to me before and after our very awkward smooch in somebody’s unfinished basement. He had red hair and freckles I always thought were cute and a severely lazy eye that always creeped me out just a bit. The kiss was just a peck, but it was in front of 50 people and with someone I didn’t even like.
Question: How long have you been dating J-Mo?
Answer: After several months of chatting and flirting and never being in town the same weekend, we started dating at the beginning of February and became exclusive shortly thereafter. Mind you, he could have asked me out months prior to our first date…a fact I try to remind him of on a fairly regular basis. I know, I’m terribly mature.
Question: I want to know more about your man. From Briana.
Answer: Not technically a question, but I shall respond anyhow. J-Mo is not perfect, but he is perfect for me. In addition to being kind, smart, a bit geektastic, and and terribly handsome (hello, do you see that smile? It kills me every. single. time.), he is sweet, considerate, and loves me more than I ever thought someone could love a person. On the flip side, I love him more than I have ever loved anyone, or ever even thought I could love someone. It’s like fairy tales and happy endings all over the place. The other night I was chatting with him and remembered something quite hilarious from the very early days of us dating. Unbeknownst to me when I agreed to go out with him, the Mo Family have a genetic predisposition to be extra charming. Seriously, the Mo-Men Charm is an actual thing, it is talked about at family functions and J-Mo’s Mom says it is what made her fall for his Dad. Okay, so Charmingness: J-Mo has it in spades. On our second or third date he pipes up with this warning, “Just so you know, you will probably fall in-love with me. You’ve been warned.” He explained the Charmingness disease and I told him that if I did, in fact, fall for him I was going to place all blame squarely on his charming shoulders. Ha. Touche, life, touche.
Question: What about your first kiss with J-Mo? What’s the story there?
Answer: I think it was our third or fourth date, we had gone to dinner and were watching a movie at my house. I had already decided I really liked him, so I curled up next to him on the couch and tucked my arm through his, my head on his left shoulder. After a few minutes he turned his left hand over and held it towards me to hold, confident and adorable and…well, I was hooked. (A guy who doesn’t play games? I am absolutely interested in that.) We watched the rest of the movie holding hands, me curled up next to him. When it was over I looked up at him, really really hoping he would kiss me. He did, and it was amazing. A-May-Zing. It was the kind of kiss that makes your heart race and your breath catch in your chest; I’m pretty sure he audibly ManSwooned.
(Can I tell you a secret? Well, two secrets, actually. Secret 1: The kisses have only gotten more amazing since then. Swoon! Secret 2: The above photo is not our first kiss. Shocking, I know. You probably thought I was the kind of girl who always documented that sort of thing, just in case.)
Question: What do you like the most about J-Mo? From K over at Two Adults, One Brown Baby
Answer: I had to think about this question quite a bit, actually. I love so many things about J-Mo, but when I had to narrow it down I came to two things that mean the most to me.
Thing 1: J-Mo is kind, he is one of those people who is just nice. He is polite and friendly and goes out of his way to help others. He is the kind of man who cares about people, and it shows. Babies and little kids flock to him and my niece, age almost-3, asks about him every single time I see her and runs up to him for a hug any time he’s around. He is sweet to me, he has yet to raise his voice or even speak to me with any kind of anger or disrespect. Sure, we’ve had disagreements and differing opinions–it’s not like he kow-tow’s to me or anything like that–but we can disagree without it turning nasty. Even on big things, even on emotional things, he is always kind.
Thing 2: J-Mo sees me as I really am, flaws and all, and he loves me anyway. He has not put me up on a pedestal where I feel I am unable to be myself, he does not roll his eyes or get bothered or miffed when I have my less than stellar moments (and believe me, I have them). He has this amazing ability to encourage the best of me and simultaneously, he is not disappointed or embarrassed or put out when I am just my regular, normal, not-best self. I am geeky and goofy and silly and quirky without worrying that he will think less of me. I have baggage and issues and unbloggable things that affect me in really horrible ways. I am snarky and sassy and feisty and stubborn–and sometimes downright pig-headed–but even on my bad days, or bad weeks I know that his feelings won’t change. (And yes, after those bad days and bad weeks I admit my pig-headedness, apologize and ask to try again.) J-Mo encourages the best parts of me to grow and develop, but he does not demand I change or insist that if I just tweak this or that, or get over this hurdle or that, or, you know, completely re-prioritize my life so he can really love me and then we can be happy. He loves me just the way I am; he is happy with me, and I with him, just as we are.
This last question is from the charming and swoontastic J-Mo himself.
Question: Heidi, will you marry me?
Answer: Yes! Yes! and more Yes!
*Included with this answer were laughs and smiles and hugs and kisses and tears and more smiles and more tears and more kisses.
**No, this question was NOT submitted via blog comment or email, he’s far too classy for that. Stay tuned for the rest of this story. If you’ll excuse me now, I have to go kiss his face off. Again.
Alternate Title: All the Mushy Details on My Mysterious Man of Love
Quite a while ago I decided to keep most of my dating life off of the Interwebs. I’ve mentioned dates or relationships or even boyfriends here and there, but I haven’t blogged consistently about them for several years. Coincidentally, I also haven’t had a stable relationship that lasted for more than a few months in that time either. Until now. Readers, I’ve been holding out on you, I’ve been dating someone since the beginning of the year, and until the last few weeks I haven’t said a word about it. Now, if things were pretty casual, something like “oh yeah, we hang out on weekends, sometimes” that wouldn’t be too unusual (for me), but it’s been more along the lines of “we talk every single day, text/email back and forth almost constantly, and are together as much as we can possibly manage.” He is wonderful and I can’t get enough of him. (Have you upchucked at the lovesick mush yet? No? Good. Take another Pepto and keep reading. If yes, um, keep that vomit bag close because things are about to get ridiculously mushy around here.)
J-Mo and I met almost 10 years ago when my best friend Sara married his best friend and we were both in the wedding party. I only vaguely remember him; he wasn’t single at the time, and I was all of 18 years old. I remember noticing his amazingly gorgeous smile, and I remember thinking that whoever got to dance with him was one lucky girl. (I danced with the groom’s very tall, very skinny, mostly awkward but totally polite younger brother.) Fast forward to this fall when, for the first time in a decade, both J-Mo and I were single and living in the same state. Sara had this brilliant idea that we might get along quite nicely and she cyber-introduced us. We chit-chatted back and forth for a few weeks, we became Facebook friends, I unabashedly stared at every one of his photos, trying to find one with that captivating smile and recall any additional memories of the man I’d briefly met 10 years earlier. We exchanged numbers. We chit-chatted some more. He went out of town for the holidays, and I escaped to Mexico. We chit-chatted some more. We both went out of town again. FINALLY we were both in town the same weekend and we went on our first date. On our second date he brought me cupcakes he’d made himself with pink frosting and sprinkles to celebrate my birthday; by our third date I was already falling for this small-town boy with a heart of gold.
I am still pretty hesitant to share a lot of details about he and I, I feel fiercely protective of this relationship in ways I have never felt before. Things with J-Mo are better than anything I’ve ever experienced, and I am really reluctant to jeopardize or jinx that in any way. But, there is no point in mentioning as much as I have so far if I’m not gonna fill his character out a little more, right? Right. (Those who are squeamish over pending mushiness should prepare yourselves.)
J-Mo is hardworking, honest, humble, kind, sensitive, scruffy (yum!) and has a triple dose of charm that makes me weak in the knees. He encourages me by his unassuming example to work harder in my classes, to take more care in improving my relationships, and to be more dedicated to my faith. He “gets” me in ways that I never thought someone could get me, I feel like he sees me for myself, as I am, flaws and all. And most importantly, he accepts me for myself, as I am, flaws and all. (I think there is a bit from Bridget Jones’ Diary along these lines, no?) I’ve had a pretty rocky road to get here, and it has been so freeing for me to be able to talk about those experiences, the lessons I’ve learned and the ways I am trying to use them to become a better person without worrying about being judged or having my mistakes thrown back in my face. He listens, we talk about it, he smiles, he just…he gets me.
Two weeks ago I spent the better part of 10 days with J-Mo and the rest of the Mo family at his parent’s house in Montana (which I will be posting about for the next couple of days. I only took 800 pictures, it won’t be that intensive. Blink-blink. *Cough* Shifty Eyes). It was wonderful. Not only is he related to some of the funniest, most real and down-to-earth people on the planet, it was also the most relaxing vacation I’ve had in over five years. No stress, no worries, hardly any cyber-connectivity, no schedule, no intense heat or sun (I’m a fair, Nordic flower with skin cancer already under my belt, sunbathing just isn’t my thing), and a whole lot of Mother Nature.
Now, I am a total city girl, and J-Mo is a country boy. Montana has a lot of wide open spaces and not a lot of city, I feel like I knew J-Mo pretty well before this trip, but I loved seeing him in his “natural habitat.” I loved seeing these new sides of him that aren’t usually brought to the surface in our weekend dating excursions. J-Mo is the kind of guy who enjoys hard work, and is really good at all that manly-man stuff; truck stuff, dirt stuff, stuff involving tools, ya know, “Man Stuff”. He can also toast the perfect marshmallow and understands that s’mores are better with extra chocolate. He will play ball and rough house with the boys, take small people on 4-wheeler rides anytime they ask, will allow a 6-year-old girl to paint his toenails because it made her day (and mine). He knows how to snuggle kiddos to sleep and carry them up to bed without waking them. He loves country music, sings along with a gorgeous baritone that sends shivers up my spine, and is doing a damn fine job of slowly convincing me to let him take me out dancing. He will always open my door, carry the heavy stuff (and even the not-heavy stuff), hold my hand, and send me good morning and good night messages. J-Mo also indulges my love of going to the symphony, takes me on motorcycle trips, arranges hot air balloon rides, and he doesn’t roll his eyes when I say something like “We’re going to a party, you need a proper hat,” or “We’re hiking to the top of that cliff,” or “I just want a pony, a tiny one” (I say this a lot, actually), or “Wait! Stop! Pull over! I want to take a picture!” and then, ten minutes later, “Wait! Pull over! I need to take another one!” He calms me when I’m upset or frustrated, makes me laugh, and is a ridiculously good sport about my silly antics and nerdy ideas. His smile makes my heart go pitty-pat and one look from those big blue eyes absolutely melts my insides. I am giddy; and I have been giddy for months.
Sigh. I adore him.
In fact, I am so head-over-heels I asked him to put a pile of country music on my iPod–and I like it–and I bought Ree’s book. I think this means it’s getting serious.
Let’s talk about boys. Or, rather, let’s talk about men. After being burned terribly from a couple of relationships, it is sometimes easy to default into the “men are pigs” camp. Admittedly, from time to time I have been smack dab in the middle of that camp, and I would like to apologize to all of the non-porcine gentlemen for so insensitively lumping you in with the handful of jerks who give your kind a bad rap. The truth is there are amazing, kind, strong and delightfully masculine men everywhere. Granted, sometimes they are in hiding, but more often than not I think they are just quietly going about their business. The last couple of months I haven’t been dating anyone in particular (which is kind of new for me in itself, btw) but I have had the chance to get to know several really incredible men. I have been keeping tabs on (some of) their behavior, and frankly would love to see more of it. Instead of harping and complaining about how men are just so horrible and insensitive and blahbity-blah-blah, I thought I’d make a list of all the awesome little things that made my day in the hopes that these behaviors will be continued. Please note: Not a single one of these acts of chivalry were done for or because of snuggles or smooches. I don’t’ know why I feel like I should point this out (or the fact that it’s been a while since I was good and kissed, ahem), but I think it’s notable that these small acts of kindness and gentlemanly good manners were a natural instinct and not an obligation. At least, I like to think that’s what happened.
Some of these “thank you’s” are directed towards good friends, some to acquaintances, and a few to complete strangers.
Thank you for offering your arm while I picked my way across an icy, snowy street. And thank you for taking your arm back after we crossed. You weren’t trying to pull something or be extra flirty or whatever—you were simply being kind.
Thank you for scraping the 8 inches of snow off my car. I watched you from across the parking lot when you didn’t think anyone could see you. I saw, and I appreciate it.
Thank you for putting yourself between me and someone I really didn’t want to see. You literally blocked the undesirable person from my line of sight and spent the better part of an hour as a barricade.
Thank you for sitting by me so I wasn’t so tragically aware of my single status at a non-single function.
Thank you for offering me the more comfortable seat.
Thank you for your encouragement and support of all Good Things, and thank you for keeping me straight on the Not-So-Good ones.
Thank you for your heart-felt reply, and thank you for your concern.
Thank you for reaching up to the tippy-top shelf at the grocery store to get the chocolate I wanted, and thank you for smiling about it.
Thank you for always telling me the hard and sometimes brutal truth, and for saying it in a way that I actually will listen. And thank you for telling me again when I forget.
Thank you for opening the door and holding it for me, even though I was 20 feet away.
Thank you for keeping my secrets.
Thank you for offering solutions when I called looking for help, thank you for not laughing or blowing me off.
Thank you for caring so much and for so long.
Thank you for listening to me rant and rave about this, that or the other; and thank you for withholding your judgment.
Thank you for your compliments; they will not be forgotten.
Thank you for giving me hope.
Thank you for waiting around after everyone else had gone, just to make sure I didn’t walk out to my car alone.
Thank you for always being there, no matter what happens and how long it’s been since we last spoke; thank you for being my friend.
Thank you for encouraging some of my geekier tendencies, and also my more feminine ones.
Thank you for your concern, and for making sure that I was really okay after that Thing With That Guy at That Place That One Time.
Thank you for explaining the rules, I still don’t get them all, but I appreciate your taking the time and effort so I didn’t feel quite so out of place.
Thank you for always noticing my shoes; I am more than my footwear, but your comments about my heel-choice always make me smile.
Thank you for laughing with me when the situation became so awkward the only other option was to cry. Seriously, thank you.
In recent weeks I have re-entered the dating scene in full force. Well, half-force. I still have school and work and what-have-you. But last week I managed to go on four dates; four dates that ranged from blah to odd to awkward to down-right creepy. Now, I have been dating for a long time and have been on thousands of dates (it’s true, I’ve done the math. Don’t judge me.). I am not a dating expert, but I feel like I can make a definitive statement about what makes a good or bad date. Good dates do not need to cost a lot of money, they don’t need to be extravagant or the most unique idea on the planet.
A Few Do’s and Don’ts:
- Do have a plan, which is not to say it needs to be an expensive or elaborate plan, but have a plan. Options are totally okay, by the way. Sushi or Mexican Food or Pizza? Art gallery or movie or walk through the park? Or even Redbox or a board game? But have a plan, okay?
- Do not pick me up and then expect me to come up with an agenda for the evening on the spot, I’d rather just say good night and go back to What Not To Wear reruns.
- Do engage in conversation. I like talking, witty banter, conversations about deep, meaningful topics or hilarious chats of no consequence. You are not the Dalai Lama, if you were I would be fine just standing in reverent silence of your awesomeness. But, again, you are not the Lama, so prepare to talk about something.
- Do not base your entire conversation on the following: video games, fantasy football, or the strategy of NASCAR. A mention is not a deal-breaker, but unless you are sure your date is as passionate about gaming, fantasy sports, or turning left for 4 hours, keep it to a minimum, okay?
- Do flirt appropriately. Dorky one-liners are charmingly awkward and more endearing than any Rico Suave moves you’ve polished over the years on dozens of unsuspecting women.
- Do not stare at my chest. Or my ass. I realize I am not wearing a nun’s outfit or Polygamist Chic couture but I am not dressed like a whore. I realize you are a man and will probably check out what I’ve got. But do not a) make it a point of conversation, or b) be all creepy and misogynistic about any woman’s girly parts. Enough said? Okay.
- Don’t answer your phone mid-date and proceed to have a 10 minute conversation with your buddy about going to see Jackass. The irony is not sexy.
- Do be yourself, please. If “yourself” is a snoozefest or an asshole, we probably won’t go out again. But if “yourself” is quirky or geeky or charming or awkward, but REAL, there is a shot.
Now, these are not a complete set of dating rules. But it’s a good place to start. I would like to point out that after dating someone for a little while, some of these are not so much of a faux pas (talking to a buddy on the phone, updating your date on your fantasy football league, etc.).
