The Marrying Kind

I’m beginning to think I’m not the marrying kind.

-Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City


There was once a time in my life where I actually quoted that shit out loud. To other people. Who might have been listening.

In high school and college (admittedly my prime SATC-watching years) I had a recurring wedding dream. I pictured myself walking down the isle toward my groom. Each time, in a full–on black and white filter–he would turn around and all I would see is a faceless man in a tux.

Those were my only wedding dreams.

And here I am, fianced. After all of the years¬†of recklessness with other people’s hearts, I am responsible for this one very important heart. That responsibility is the honor and privilege of my lifetime. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be planning a wedding at 30 years old with a man I love. Frankly, it surprised me when I made it to my 27th birthday, let alone making it to a life worth living with a person worth loving.

Needless to say, I am a reluctant wedding planner but a willing¬†bridal participant. The level of details that go into a one-time wedding event stultify me. Except¬†for the hours moments I go on Pinterest or get a phonecall from one of my best friends; those tend to be actual fun. Left to my own devices, I would walk my candy-ass to a courthouse and get married in the city of Richmond. I know I’d regret it, so I have to keep reminding myself that I am not the only one whose dreams I need to consider.

Despite the frenetic degree of google-doc’ing, one of the best things to emerge¬†from this engagement is my burgeoning spiritual practice. I’ve maintained a joyful and fun daily yoga practice with the Gaia and Yoga With Adriene online communities. But I realized last week¬†that I needed more. I started meditating again, this time taking my spiritual cues from Krishna Kaur and Gabby Bernstein. I feel lighter and more willing to chill. My yoga and meditation practices commune¬†to bolster my self-esteem.

I still curse a lot, but I don’t want that to¬†ever change.

I maintain that gratitude for where I am today keeps me present. I know that being engaged or planning a wedding doesn’t define me anymore than singledom or marriage ever did or ever will. That knowledge of “enoughness” within me, as-is, remains the second best thing to emerge from this process. I still get caught up in the budgets and the apparent infinity that is wedding color schemes, but it doesn’t mean that I have to stay caught. Loved ones tell me to enjoy the planning process, which I intend to take to heart. Otherwise I will continue to rail against 1). The Wedding Industrial Complex and 2). The Patriarchy.

I am and always will be a compulsive, over-thinking, excitable, loving and inappropriate woman. As it turns out, I am enough.

I am the marrying kind.

 

 

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Cent’Anni! (But I’ll take Two)

A traditional Italian toast–“Cent’Anni!”–blesses the toastee with wishes to live 100 years. I’ve walked this earth made from 75% Italian and 25% French stock, never having toasted much of anything (with the exception of my twin at her wedding. But not before I got into the champagne). I jumped to drink before the host got a chance to toast. It’s kind of like being that girl who is two bites in before she notices that other people at the dining table are waiting to bless the food before they eat. Madonn’.

In other news, I turned two years sober like a week ago. On Saint Patrick’s Day. This might be a sacrilege, considering the patron saint of the Eye-talians is Saint Joseph. He has his own day, too. Let’s chalk it up to an accident. By the time I was ready to get sober, the days ran together. I had no idea if I was in March or May. Needless to say, I’m thrilled, I’m happy, I’m turnt–it’s March 26th and I know who the President is.

I am a #babyteacher now. My anxiety is at an all-time low. I still go to meetings. I pray to Bowie (perhaps another sacrilege). I give less fucks than I did yesterday. I give more shits than I did a year ago. I practice yoga. I am devoted to a man I consider the love of my life. I’m that girl–yeah, that other one. Lucy 2.0.

Point being, I changed. We all change. It’s possible for people to change. I’m not currently dying from the disease of alcoholism. My soul is intact. I love. I am loved. I’m here, should you need me.

Salut.

xx

 

 

 

Scheduling Worry Time and The New Adele

I’ve given the new Adele song teaser from her album 25 just about 25 listens. (I’ve listened to it three times back-to-back in¬†the past 15 minutes). I like seeing people–especially my lady friends–get so jazzed about her singing. I always wondered what made her songs¬†that delicious to listen to, but then I found this article that explains it with science¬†in “Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker.” I am not quite there with emotions being in my comfort zone. Actually, I don’t really have a comfort zone to tell you the truth–I’m not usually comfortable most of the time. But when I hear Adele songs, I can’t help but get drawn into my own emotions because it makes them feel beautiful.

I had to schedule my listening time for Adele and Curtis Mayfield this morning. My brain gets overwhelmed when it doesn’t have the¬†wherewithal to relax. I saw my counselor on Thursday, where she told me that I needed to be more disciplined in how and when I relax. This was news to me because I don’t ever relax, even when I’m relaxing. She gave me¬†solid suggestions after I told her that when I took a selfie last week (one of those cheeky ones where I give an over the shoulder glance) I could visibly see the knots in my back. I told her I was so grossed out that I almost puked. She suggested not puking, practicing yoga, giving guided meditation a go and scheduling “worry time” for 30 minutes every day. I might be the only person on the planet who gets excited that I have a way to siphon off my worry for a concentrated period of time.

I woke up at 8am to¬†ruminate over¬†everything from finances and work to health and exercise. It helped me to write down all of the things in a stream of consciousness. When I read them back to myself,¬†it made me laugh. Many of the things I worry about are not actually areas of concern. My worry is a manifestation of my¬†perceived lack of control. In the 12 steps, feeling out of control tends to mean that it’s time to give the 3rd step another round–“Made the decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understand Him.” I have the opportunity today to turn my worries and confusions over to a power greater than myself–or to Time, which is my version of a higher power this morning.

I begin my yoga practice (again) on Wednesday. I am a highly anxious person by nature, but when I develop a flow in yoga I don’t think about myself too much. I am much more present and happy when my German teacher guides us to do poses in her thick, aggressive accent. She is a lovely woman, really.

Photo courtesy of UnicornBooty