I'm Awesome And I Know It, (well, not right now...but soon. I promise. Maybe. I just have to change my pants.)

womentalksports.com

"Want to go for a run?" Brett asked me early this morning.

"No. Maybe. In a half hour." I mumbled from under his pillow. (His pillow is much more appealing in the morning, and I always reach for it at dawn leaving him pillowless and baffled. But he never reaches for it back, which baffles me.)

EXACTLY a half hour later, Brett jumped up to fling on the lights and started yanking socks on my feet as I kicked away frantically. "You're already wearing running pants AND a sports bra" he surveyed, tossing me my sneakers as I burrowed deeply into the bed. "So, that's convenient. And weird. Let's go."

I looked down and realized I was, in fact wearing work-out clothes. From yesterday. That I didn't work out in. "Oh my God." I whispered to Brett. "Am I letting myself go?"

Brett's eyes widened as he realized he was probably stepping into a minefield at 8 am and was not exactly prepared for it. He pulled me to my feet and said grandly: "You're really pretty."

And we were off.

"I had a dream last night that I was stuck on an island of talking soldier monkeys. The island was haunted, and at night we had to huddle in this circle that protected us from the ghosts. I was a prisoner of the monkey soldiers, obviously, but I started helping them concoct a blessing when you RUDELY WOKE ME UP." I said as we jogged along.

Brett looked over at me and shook his head. "You NEED to be a writer. Or do something creative. Please don't ever get a desk job- your brain is just too...special."

"I'm thinking you mean special in a good way." I retorted as I bent to tie a wayward shoelace that wasn't wayward at all, but saved me from gasping for air in a very unattractive way. (I tie my shoelaces a lot when I run.)

"Of course." He said." I don't even dream at all. And monkey soldiers?! "

As amazingly supportive over my brain as Brett was being, his comments struck a chord in me. I have been looking for jobs. Real people jobs that come after college when you start wanting things like cars without dents and houses and nice bottles of wine. And I was looking for jobs during a time I could not believe in myself less.

I write paragraphs and erase them. I wear workout clothes around the house while not actually...working out. The only thing I accomplished yesterday was a successful nail appointment and a dinner of unburned steak. Brett has been picking up on my subtle cues of depression, (like crying in front of the refrigerator the other day while I ate 6 month old truffles,) and he has handled it gracefully. He peppers the odd compliment into our conversations. (Like last night, he grinned at me and said: "Have I ever told you that you ARE SO GOOD at caramelizing onions?!" I kind of feel like if he had a gold medal in the shape of an onion he would have placed it around my neck in his rapture over said wilted onions.) He has been- in a word- supportive. Supportive over his moody-and-treading-water-half-assedly-wife.

It is not his job to do so, but I appreciate it all the same. And our run this morning reminded me that I could you know...try a little. Like, dress for bed like an adult. Agree that I should have a creative job and GO FOR IT instead of feeling like I'm not good enough, pretty enough, capable, or actually very good at caramelizing onions.

I'll admit I am scared at this new phase in life. I kind of feel out of my element, a hippie Berkeley fish out of water, unsure of the next step or the appropriate outfit required to meet that step. I mean, running pants are awesome- but RUN IN THEM FOR GOD SAKE. Don't sit at the kitchen table in them, working on your resume by adding stupid things to it to amuse yourself. No one cares you know how to make homemade spaghetti sauce. Or can speak Klingon. (And if Brett knew I added weird things like that for about- oh, 3 hours a day, he might not be terribly enthused.) Just- Do It. Live by the Nike slogan. Hitch your wagon to a star. Put it in your pocket. (Same song? No?) Have the eye of the tiger. Get the moves like Jagger.

Just do SOMETHING MELISSA FOR GOD SAKE.

Anyway.

I'm wearing jeans today, so there's that. I will dress these jeans up for dinner tonight with girlfriends, and tomorrow I will submit a spaghetti-sauce-queen-free resume to the local theaters and prepare myself for change.

And I will meet that change with my Capable Smart Girl pants on. And not my running pants.

Although they are terribly comfortable.

And make me look like I work out, like, ALL the time.

Sometimes Marriage Is Not Super Fun-All-The-Time-Awesome-Unicorns-And-Sparkles. And that is ok.

You know what is interesting?

Having a blog. Over a year. And being able  to look back over that year and see how you have grown/not grown/gotten fatter/ even though you became 98% vegetarian.

Case in point: A year ago I wrote this blog- http://thewifeexperiment.blogspot.com/2011/08/no-homeless-people-attacked-me-today-so.html

This was written ONE YEAR AGO FROM TODAY.

What was today in 2012 like?

Today I woke up next to my husband. I went out for coffee, leaving my new home. I looked for a nail salon. I could not find one close by. I tripped over a bump in the side-walk and was mortified for over an hour. I came home and set out champagne and love notes and chocolate...because 6 years ago on this day Brett asked me to OFFICIALLY be his girlfriend. We don't normally celebrate this day, but we needed some celebrating.

Let me tell you something about marriage: it. is. hard. And sometimes messy. And sticky. And cranky. And low in blood sugar. BUT, ALWAYS WORTH IT. And, when you can celebrate something- anything...celebrate the shit out of it.

Brett and I just got back from a week long road trip from San Francisco to Pittsburgh. We stopped in amazing cities, we drank wine, we ate Tex-Mex, we laughed, we got bites from bed bugs, we met a celebrity, we made out like teen-agers on cheap motel beds, we petted horses on the side of the road, we sang, we giggled, and we listened to the entire unabridged version of "Little Women" on cassette tape. It was basically the stuff dreams are made of. However, anyone that actively knows us is probably perplexed by this. We could NOT be more different. We could NOT argue more than we do. But, stick us in a 90's tin can of a car, slap some literature from the 1800's on us, and suddenly we are having the time of our lives?

Uh. Yes.

As soon as our feet touched hallowed Pittsburgh ground we were at each other. We argued about air conditioners, diet, decor, hard alcohol, friends, t.v. shows, family, makeup, and any other little thing we could conjur up in our foamy craziness. We went out for drinks with friends, only to bicker bitterly the entire walk home over non-existant problems. We got to the point where we could not stand one another and we were in the same one bedroom apartment.

It was refreshing, actually.

Let me tell you why.

We're all drawn to the friends that have the perfect marriages with the perfectly dressed children and the perfectly decorated house a'la Pottery Barn. We pine over details like designer lounge chairs and in-home movie theaters and pool decks and in-law cottages we pray the in laws will never use. It is a life constructed out of perfection that is fed to us- by who?

I admit I fail in this way- in this wanting. One day, in between Texas and somewhere not Texas, Brett looked over at me and said: "Bear?" (his pet name for me. OKAY, NOW YOU ALL KNOW IT.) "Where would you be? If life was just how you wanted it? And money was not an issue?"

I immediately gave him my robotic answer. "House, yard, kids, dog, good career, no wrinkles, lots of traveling." He didn't say anything, but smiled sadly and squeezed my hand.

And it only took until the day I decided to blog to see how stupid I was.

Life is not about that, is it? I mean, YES, IT WOULD BE NICE TO HAVE A HOUSE...but I would rather have a husband to argue with over why Amy March is such a bitch but really is so good for Laurie. (read Little Woman. Right Now.) I would rather have my husband get so mad at me he melodramatically tries to sleep on our all-white-sofa, but knowing it is all white lays a sheet down before begrudgingly returning to our bed, hoping I don't notice out of pride. I'd rather have a life that consits of happy errors, loving mistakes, and stupid fights.

This blog is deeper than usual, but I felt like I had a message to say. GUESS WHAT FRIENDS AND LOVED ONES ABOUT TO GET MARRIED OR NEWLY MARRIED? Sometimes it all sucks. It all sucks ass. But, there are flickers of moments in those sucky ass moments that make you realize the most important thing:

Someone loves you enough to stand beside you. And sleep on your white couch. And roll their eyes at you. And make you coffee in the morning and say: "Hey- you suck sometimes. But I really love you. And I will love you forever. No matter how sucky you can be."

And hopefully they will follow this statement with a pat on the ass.

Because...that is THE BEST part of marriage.

Always.

I'm Glad You Were Born. most of the time.

"It's that time of year again." Brett said to me hesitantly over dinner the over night. "Your birthday is coming up. What would you like to do?"

I describe him as asking this question hesitantly, because he totally was. And as he asked it he sort of flinched and leaned back in his chair a bit. And maybe held his breath. I could be imagining all of these things, but I'm pretty sure I am 100% right that that was what was happening.

I pushed my food back and shrugged. "I don't know. Dinner? And I need a new hair straightener since my last one blew up at that haunted chateau in Normandy."

Brett opened his mouth to argue that the chateau was not haunted. (It was. He slept through the haunting. And, even if I imagined it we were staying in a mansion that was approximately 7 billion years old, sleeping on a canopy bed that had portraits of dead children hanging over our heads along with snippets of their powdery hair. AND, OH THE LIGHTS KEPT TURNING OFF AND ON AND THE COUNT RUNNING THE ESTATE WAS LIKE, "OH NO WORRIES. THAT IS JUST MY DEAD MOTHER.") Anyway, before he started his argument he seemed to actually hear what my preferences were for my birthday, and he stopped.

"No cake? Balloons? Surprise parties you ask for? No special champagne? No drawn out birthday week?!" 


"No. And you make me sound very high maintenance. Which makes me want to go out and BUY STUFF. But no... well, maybe some cake."


"I'm worried." He said, practically wringing his hands. "I'm just going to come out and say that I am really worried. Is this a trap? A test? I mean- I know my wife. This is totally a test, right? So you want a big party?" As Brett started trailing off and muttering about how he knew he would be dead meat if he simply handed me a hair straightener over dinner on my birthday, I stopped him.

"Brett- I just...don't feel like celebrating this year. I'm going to be 29. The 20's are almost over. I was just getting good at them, and now they are gone."

"Yeah, I don't think you have to worry about that. I think you'll be a little bit too good at your 30's too."

(He's always incredibly helpful.)

This conversation made me realize two things. One: My poor husband acts like a scared and cornered animal whenever he mentions my birthday, and I may be slightly to blame for it. I'm not a monster (is the thing all monsters say...) But I'm not. Honest. My husband is an only child, and got so much attention as it was, birthdays just...weren't a big deal. In fact, until I came into the picture, I don't think he had celebrated one since he was about 7. And then it took me 6 years of over-the-top celebrations of him to realize he actually isn't a fan of birthdays at all. (Not that it stops me. It slows me a bit, sure. Like- I won't rent the clown for him or anything, but there may still be a jumpy house.) And I come from a massive family. There are too many of us kids to have constant attention. I once RAN AWAY and my mom didn't even notice. Granted, I was sitting in a tree across the road, eating peanut butter sandwiches and watching my house angrily, sure someone was going to run out screaming my name. But no one did. You know why? Because there were nine thousand of us. I don't even think I know all of my sibling's names.


But on your birthday- things were different. I was born at 3:40 am, and for the longest time my mom would creep into my room to kiss me at that exact moment. She would whisper a happy birthday in my ear, and we both relished the thought that she always said the first happy birthday of the day. I was always awake for this private moment, squirming in my bed, knowing any second I would see her silhouette illuminated from the golden light of my nightlight. That stopped eventually, maybe when I became a surly preteen and OHMYGOD MOM THAT IS SO EMBARRASSING. But, I miss it. I want that moment back. I'm sure Brett wouldn't be weirded out at all by my mom joining us at 3:40 am every August 5th.

After the private celebration came the day o'treats. Breakfast in bed, a big, splashy birthday party, dinner picked by the birthday girl, and an entire day where I didn't have to share any toys-at-all-no-way. Even during the lean years, my mom somehow made the entire thing special. We didn't have much, but we had the celebration. It was magic.

And then the next day I went back to being a face among the masses, but not without the lingering glow from the day before.

So, you see the tough act Brett has to follow, but he has taken on the challenge beautifully- year after year blessing me with thoughtful notes and planned trips, and sometimes very quiet and lovely nights at home. It was just about recognizing the fact that I was here, and nudging me on the shoulder over a glass of wine and saying: "Hey. I'm really glad you were born."

So, that brings me to the Second thing I realized about our conversation.

What didn't I want to celebrate, exactly?

Yes, I'm going to be 29. Yes, 30 is looming and I am scared of 30. I feel like I haven't finished my 20's yet. I feel like I'm playing this board game I have only NOW started to get the hang of, and we're switching to yahtzee or something like that. And yahtzee is ridiculously boring. But, you know what is more boring? BEING BORING. Being that person that gripes about being old, being tired, only wanting a hair straightener because what's the point. I don't have to be that person. I can exist outside of numbers- it's really only up to me.

And then I remembered I asked for the hair straightener in a way that wasn't boring at all. How many people fight with their husbands over an evening's events in a HAUNTED CHATEAU IN FRANCE? How many people can say they watched a hair straightener BLOW UP? LITERALLY. BLOW. UP.

And I can.

So, I'll be 29 on Sunday, but that doesn't mean a thing. What matters most is how I spend that day. And the 365 days after. And the 365 days after that.

I'm hoping it involves a lot of explosions. A lot of funny stories. And definitely numerous glasses of wine with the people I love in this life. Where I can look over at them and say:

"Hey. I'm really glad you were born."

How A Duvet Cover Changed My Life And Made Me Plan A Trip To Italy.

Oh you know, just going to make breakfast...

Last night Brett "caught" me with a duvet cover, and things got really embarrassing.

We were making the bed, and when he left the room I surreptitiously snuck over to our linen dresser. (Yes, we have one of those. Yes, it's obnoxious.) As I quickly checked over my shoulder to make sure he hadn't returned, I pulled out a gorgeous, stark white, brand new, luxurious duvet cover. Lined in warm chocolate piping with our monogram in the center- it was a wedding present that I kept hidden away. It was...perfect. Apparently when I registered for it I never expected that Brett and I would have kids or pets, or be human in any way. I never actually expected someone would buy it for us when I put it on the registry. It was just so over-the-top expensive and frivolous, but someone out there probably knew I just HAD to have it hanging out in my linen drawer.

Where it has been since we received it. 2 years ago.

"What's that?"

I whirled around, shoving it behind my back as Brett stepped closer. "Nothing!" I shouted, which only made Brett smile and reach around me.

"What is this?" He asked as he incredulously unrolled it.

"Um. A duvet cover?"

"We have a duvet?"

"Well, yes. We got a really nice one for the wedding. It's in a box somewhere."

He looked confused as he smoothed out the white perfection of the cover, and watching him touch it made my pulse quicken.

"Don't...um. Don't touch that. Is it weird I am really anxious that you are touching that? Please stop." I babbled as I backed against the linen drawer. He saw me back towards it and a wicked smile slowly spread over his face.

"There is more in there, isn't there?"

"No."

He moved me aside and found THE STASH. A set of sheets to match the duvet cover, pillowcases, other pretty bed things still in plastic and gleaming with their purity.

"God, it's like you are a Pottery Barn hoarder." He murmured as he started pulling everything out.

"BRETT! Those sheets are NOT to be slept on!" I yelled out as he started putting a perfect pillow case on his pillow. As soon as the words left my lips, I clapped my hand over my mouth, eyes bugging out.

And then I couldn't stop laughing.

I consider myself a relatively normal person with a few lovable (I hope,) quirks. However, as I watched Brett ransack this private drawer, I was alarmed at how stressed out it was making me. I also couldn't stop my maniacal laughter. What was I thinking?

Brett wanted to know the same thing. "So, what are the sheets and the duvet cover for?" he asked.

"Um. I think for show. In the future."

"Oh, ok. So, when we have people over in the future we have these on the bed, but when they leave.."

"Yeah. We change it. I think it makes total sense. Like throw pillows."

"There is nothing about a throw pillow that make sense."

"It's just- it's like guest towels!" I offered, my voice getting a little desperate. "You have them out when people come over...for them to use!"

"So, guests can use our duvet cover and fancy sheets?"

"God. No...but they can look at them."

At this point Brett was climbing into bed, a huge smile on his face as he tested out the sainted sheets he had just put on. He stretched and sighed, a huge smile on his face as he rolled around the bed like a pig in PERFECT, VERY EXPENSIVE SHIT. I watched slightly horrified from the doorway.

"Come to bed." He smiled.

"No." I whispered. "I am so annoyed with you right now."

"Okayyy!" he sang, jumping up. "Your loss. I'm going to go brush my teeth. I will be leaving the room in case you want to pull some towels made out of gold and angel hair out of the linen dresser to just look at and then put away."

As he left the room, I dressed for bed keeping my eyes on the sheets that had now practically been defiled. Inching towards them, I slipped in...

and smiled.

They were really nice. They were really, really white. They felt amazing against my bare legs and I tried not to think that I should shower several times before touching these to keep them pristine. I buried my face into Brett's pillow and finally let go. I don't need to keep things hidden away, afraid the living of life will taint their perfection. Nothing in life is perfect. These were...just sheets. It was just a duvet. We wouldn't have them in 10 years, I wouldn't be thinking about them on my death bed. They were not anything to really set on the altar of the linen drawer and worship privately. I guess I was just...waiting for the right time to use them.

..............

I once read a story about an old women who, after she died, her daughter found an entire chest full of beautiful nightgowns that she never remembered her mother wearing. When she asked her father about the nightgowns- their silk perfection still nestled in tissue paper- her father just shrugged sadly and said: "She thought they were too nice. Maybe she felt undeserving. She was waiting for the right time to put them on."

That time never came, and if Brett hadn't forcibly made our bed with these sheets, my time to use them might have never come either. The thought made me incredibly sad because these sheets were seriously soft and scented with ground up unicorn or something magical like that. What "right time" was I waiting for? When would I wake up and feel like the world was incredibly perfect, everything was perfect, and that perfection deserved new bedding?

When Brett joined me in bed we sat up talking about how weird I am. I rolled over on my side and met his eyes. "We have boxes and boxes of perfect china, you know. Unused. Waiting for "the right time."

"Let's make the right time now," he offered. "Let's make occasions fit for china and awesome sheets- instead of waiting for them to come to us."

He was right. And I was tired of putting things in boxes waiting for the "right" time to pull them out. That book I'm always talking about writing? What better time than now? That gorgeous guitar I own but am afraid to touch? Let's break a few strings learning how to play that baby. That trip to Venice I keep talking about? Well- it's literally sinking, so I better go now.

And maybe my daughter, long after I'm gone will tell people her mother wore silky nightgowns and feather boas to breakfast. And invited her to tea parties with stuffed animals using her wedding china. And lived every single second of her life- a life that was truly and beautifully, unpacked.

I thought I wanted a Baby. But I guess I just wanted a lawn. Same Thing.

The other day I realized every one in the world has gotten pregnant except for me.

The realization came on a normal day. It was the afternoon, I was listening to the Spice Girls, drinking coffee, and scrolling through a friend's photos of her son, Felix. Never mind I have never physically met this girl. We are friends, her son is adorable, and no matter how weird Brett thinks it is that I spend hours going through her facebook pictures- I do it. I do it and I enjoy it, and I don't want to wear her skin or anything, so please stop saying that, Brett.


Anyway, on that particular afternoon it seemed like every real and imaginary and virtual friend I had was doing something with their kids. Or was having a kid at that moment. Or was talking about just getting pregnant with one. For one brief, sweeping and incredibly irrational moment I felt so. left. out. Like parenting was this elite and super colorful club that I was picked last for. If you were picked last for clubs like you were picked last for a kickball team. (And I was that person that no one wanted to play kickball with because of chronic asthma and penchant for lying in the grass.)

So, extremely off topic, but hopefully you understand how I felt.

The moment passed, as much of my irrational moments do, and then the heart of the issue became glaringly obvious.

I want a house.


The jump from wanting a baby to wanting a house is obviously extremely rational and very healthy. And truthfully, I don't want a baby right now. I like babies a lot. I like other people's babies. But I still like to drink wine at night and watch endless episodes of a t.v. show that is largely targeted towards preteens. I can't be bothered right now, is all I am saying. I have way too much wine to drink and t.v. to watch. There is simply no time to nurture.

The house thing started when a few of our friends became first time home-owners. They would have conversations with us about the "pains" of keeping up a permanent and expensive home. "Your apartment grounds are so lovely." They would croon. "I mean, who needs a backyard? You are so lucky that you don't even have to deal with that right now. God, Herb spent all of Saturday just mowing our lawn before we could even stop by the block party the Maschowitz's were hosting. We almost missed the lemonade."

Ok, so I don't have any friends named Herb. But, it's fitting given the situation. I want to have a lawn that needs to be mowed. I want to live in a Jewish neighborhood even though we're not Jewish...at all. I want lemonade, for god sake.

This weird need for a foundation is one I keep very private and very hidden, like a drug habit. So, it's nice that I'm putting it on my blog. Because no one will see it here, ever. I've taken to cramming real estate fliers in my purse like I'm pilfering sugar packets from diners. I have gone to a few open houses (hanging my head in shame over this,) alone. But, I always come up with a fake name and hang out in the kitchen far longer than anyone else, so it's totally normal. I check house prices with every city Brett and I visit or live in. And we've amassed quite a list. I'll casually sip my coffee over breakfast in Ohio and slip in how much a local brick 5 bedroom with a pool costs.

"I just...stopped by to check it out. There is a GREAT local country club nearby, and the schools are absolutely fantastic." I'll say. Naturally.

Brett will squint at me and clear his throat. "Why do we need to look at schools?"

I'll roll my eyes and sigh dramatically. "For the children. We don't have."

"You know you grew up in rural New Hampshire, right?" He'll ask. Meanly.

"What are you getting at?" I'll snap, and then soften. "I actually have some housing prices for there too. In my purse."

"Well, country clubs? I mean. Melissa. I'm still in grad school. You don't actually have a job."

I'll sniff. Because that is what people who belong to country clubs do. "I work in social media."

"You update your blog and play on facebook all day."

This is usually the end of the conversation.

It's honestly not about the country clubs or the block parties or the manicured lawn that our friendly neighbor Herb takes care of when we are out of town. I think this is the manifestation of my desire to (gasp, groan, cringe,) put down roots. And shop at Pottery Barn.

Maybe it is because Brett and I have spent this last year apart and I lived in an apartment that had ACTUAL BULLET HOLES on the outside of it. Maybe I see my friends toting their newborns around their newborn lawns as they drink lemonade with their newborn friends. Maybe I just want...to stop moving around for a little while.

Maybe I just need a place that actually feels like home. Preferably near a country club. I'll even take a YMCA.

I think Brett picked up on this weird yearning, and, (most likely incredibly grateful I wasn't asking for babies,) said the sweetest thing to me the other day.

"You know," he sang to me as we walked into the apartment #2 we live in. "This place could really use some decoration. And more lights. And a few more fun furniture pieces. Maybe we should take a trip to  IKEA, and you can pick out ANYTHING YOU WANT to make this place more homey."

It was kind of like being offered a discount Swedish baby, a bar of chocolate, and a bottle of wine all at once. It was suddenly everything I wanted and needed and every inch a love letter from him to me. In that moment Herb could keep his mowed front lawn, and his stupid block party. I was going to buy us some new lamps, some cliche wall art, and make our own damn lemonade.

With vodka.

Naturally.

LITERALLY lost in translation.

The other day Brett and I were on one of our weekly road trips, and after a few hours stuck in traffic, we started getting a little short with one another. Quickly flicking my gaze up to the never-ending stream of cars in front of us, I realized that we were sort of stuck where we were for awhile. I had to make the best out of the situation. I had to relax him and woo him and make him feel loved and secure by the dashboard light. (See what I kind of did there?)


So I sang to him in Spanish.


About 2 choruses into the song, I was really getting into it. I threw my shoulders in, I shimmied in my seat, and when I looked over at Brett, expecting to see complete adoration, I was met by complete confusion.


"Why," he asked me incredulously, "are you singing so passionately about a pen?"


........


I've never been very good with languages. I'm good with people, and for some reason I feel like that makes up for it. When Brett and I were planning our big, month long trip to France, he enrolled in French classes at Stanford, for God sake. When he asked me if I wanted to join, I confidently told him that I was pretty sure I had a knack for the French language, and wouldn't want any formal education to mess up that innate talent. So, every Wednesday Brett went off for 3 hours of lecture, and I went to the local Mexican restaurant and drank margaritas.


As you do.


Of course, once we were in France, I was completely enthralled with the culture, in love with the people, and desperate to make friends every where I went. But the only phrase I knew was the phrase you normally use to ask for the check. And I say "normally," because I'm pretty sure I wasn't even asking for the check. God knows what I was asking for. But I did it with such flourish and with such passion, the check came every night.


Perhaps in a calculated effort to make us leave.


When we went to Italy, it was the same sort of deal. Brett took Italian, I waved my hands around a lot and ended up making friends with a Canadian couple in the laundromat because they were the only ones who understood me. I tried though. I smiled. I parroted back phrases I heard Brett use smoothly and with a quiet confidence I could not actually emulate. When I wandered off alone one afternoon and could not even order gelato by myself because the waiter had NO IDEA WHATSOEVER I was asking for, I slunk back to Brett with tears in my eyes.


"Maybe you were right." I sniffed. "I mean, maybe. But, I was so close. I almost ordered...something."


To his credit, (and maybe because we were on our honeymoon,) he didn't say a word, ordered me a glass of limoncello from a local cafe, and probably became best friends with the waiter because I HAD NO IDEA WHAT WAS GOING ON.


And I drank the limoncello. And thought that maybe it was time I learned another language.


People are always surprised to hear I took 4 years of Spanish in high school. And when I say people are surprised, I mean no one actually cares that I took 4 years of Spanish in high school, but I like to pretend they do. But, they DO START caring when I finish my story and tell them that I actually only took 2 years of Spanish in high school. Spanish 1...and Spanish 2.


3 times.


I blame my Spanish 1 teacher, the cleverly named "Señora." Señora was like me- vivacious, a party girl, dressed loudly and had crazy curls that took over her whole face. And another thing we had in common? We spoke about the same level of Spanish.


She was beloved, so I'm not trying to drag her name through the barro, (mud. Thank you babel fish.) But she was sort of clueless. I mean, yes...I learned all the words to "La Cucaracha." I designed a "dia de los muertos" mask that the class all made as well and paraded around the halls of our small high school during lesson time. I ate salsa. I drew pictures in class, and she would swoop in, pick them up, and ask if she could keep them for herself. Never mind I was drawing those pictures during her lecture on verb conjugation. Never mind that she did half the lecture in stick figures. She was a hoot, people loved her, and I got an "A" in Spanish.


And then she retired, dammit.


Enter "Señor."


Señor was a compact, attractive, and charming man. HE WAS ALSO ACTUALLY SPANISH. After my first day in Spanish 2 he asked me to stay after class. I naively thought he just wanted to congratulate me on my awesome social skills and my ability to sing the entirety of "La Cucaracha." Instead, he beamed at me and kindly asked me "How the fuck did I make it to Spanish 2?" Except he didn't say fuck.


But, his Spanish temper did.


Needless to say I was kept after class EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. as he tirelessly worked with me. For 3 years. I'm surprised no one thought we were having an affair, pregnant, and married by the end of that time. He was the longest relationship I had had to that date, and the most mature and complicated by far. I'll never forget my last session- about a week to graduation. We were sitting in his hot classroom, and I was trying to adjust my jean skirt as I recited in broken Spanish what I had done that day.


"I ate of the fruit. I ran. I wore of the short pants and I gymnasium. I shop of cloth at night-time with my Mother's Mother..."


He looked at me, very sweetly, and pushed a piece of paper towards me as I continued my stream of banality.


"What this of?" I asked in Spanish. Ish.


"Please stop speaking Spanish. Please, please speak English." He begged. "It's a note. Saying you pass. You pass Spanish 2, and can graduate. Congratulations, good luck, and you can leave now."


So, we ended on really loving terms.


In all seriousness, this man had put up with more than...well, most have. Besides Brett. So, maybe they should meet. They can speak Spanish together, because I'm sure Brett knows it.


Anyway, I guess you can say that this brief hiccup caused me a little more damage than I thought. Señor was not to blame at all. In fact, I want to find him and shake his hand and reassure him that I am not a total and complete idiot. But, it altered the way I approached language. It became something I was afraid of. I shied away from it- and only when I found my "voice,"...much later in life...was I willing to look at it again.
.........


After my passionate Spanish song about pens, Brett looked over at me and asked if I wanted to learn a language with him. "It can be anything you want. I know how you are about that sort of thing- so I want you to be comfortable. But, I want to really learn and master a language with you. We could do it together. Any language you want."


I leaned back, turned up the J-Lo that had just come on the radio and smiled at him. "How is your Spanish?" I asked.


"Not great." He answered.


"Bueno. I'm in."

Cool Kid

A woman of many COOL faces.

The other day I was laying in bed, nursing a tepid coffee and reading up on burn victims. So, it was a normal Thursday morning. As I lazily perused medical documents my phone buzzed. A text from my friend had come through, and this is what is said: 


Meet for lunch now? Shady Grove? DO NOT COME DRESSED NICE OR CUTE. I just worked out and am sweaty.  


I glanced down at my outfit. I was wearing black yoga pants and a white tank-top. Not un-cute by normal standards, but throw in the fact that I had been wearing them for a day and a half  because I'm gross like that AND I APPARENTLY DON'T SHOWER WHEN TRYING TO MEET A DEADLINE, I fit the bill of her request.


Be there in 5.  I excitedly typed back while jumping into flip flops.


Now, this girl is a newish friend and, in my opinion, really, really cool. She's that kind of cool that is annoyingly effortless. And, true to form she pulled up on her bike in front of the restaurant I met her at, flipped her pretty hair out of her helmet, and beamed at me.


She looked cute. Damnit.


Even though she was the one that had just come from a run, I was the one that looked like it. I've never been able to master that chicness that comes so naturally to some women. I'm always slightly disheveled, slightly frizzing at the edges, chewing on my nail in the corner or accidentally pouring wine into my shoe. I watch women like her from afar and try to emulate them whenever possible. I'll buy the diamond stud earrings, I'll shop at J. Crew, and I always end up losing an earring in my drink and covering my sleek white skirt in grass stains by the end of the day. Usually when there is no grass around, so you can imagine just how awkward of an individual I am.


We had a wonderful lunch, but her bouncy hair and sparkling eyes stayed with me all day. Later that night, after I finally stripped out of my "non-workout-workout-clothes", showered, and crawled into bed, I turned to Brett.


"Do you think I'm cool?" I asked him as I struggled to smooth the frizzy curls that had immediately started springing from my scalp as soon as my hair got hip to the humid Ohio night. 


He put his fishing magazine down. (They have those! And he reads them! So cute.) and turned to me.


"Do I think you're what?"


"Do. You. Think. I'm Cool?"


"Do I think you're cool?" he asked incredulously as he batted my hands away from my hair. (he likes frizzy curls. He's a weirdo.)


"Don't make me ask again." I whined. "That's decidedly uncool."


"Ok, well. No. I don't think you're cool."


"You DON'T?"


"No!" he said, picking up field-fishing-hunting magazine or whatever it was. "No, I do NOT think you're cool. I think you're fun."


"Fun? That's not cool."


"Can we move on?"


"Ok, but why am I not cool?"


He looked over at me warily. "I'm not cool."


"So, I'm not cool by extension?!"


"Melissa..." he said warningly. But, at this point I could not stop laughing. Seeing my cute husband reading a fishing magazine in bed, as I sat and yanked on curls and asked him if I was cool- he was right...the whole thing was so ridiculous and so not cool it gave me the giggles. I put my face into the pillow and was laughing so hard I eventually snorted. Brett looked over, smiled, and patted my back.


"See?"


...................


I can't remember when I became obsessed with "coolness", but I know it was well before I started making friends with women like ol' sparkly eyes. I come from a very large family of women, and  they are all very attractive and loud, and you will find out from them your best physical and personal traits and all of the things that suck about you in about 5.3 seconds.


My sister Ashley is the worst. (And best.) Recently, when I went home, I came out to the pool in a bikini. "You look great." She offered noncommittally as she took a sip from her drink. When I blushed and smiled and asked, "Really? You think so?" She just rolled her eyes.


"Oh my god shut up. You're stupid." She answered.


This is a girl who in ONE DAY will tell me my morning hair looks like shit, my manicure is boring, but she loves my writing. This constant appraisal is definitely only something that comes from the special bond of being 10 months apart and a few states away.  But, in my mind, she's cool. She was the one that snuck out when we were in high school, not me. I was the one that was usually making my lunch for the next day as she primped, jumped into a car with people FROM MY GRADE and drove away. I would go to bed and write angry journal entries and put olive oil in her shampoo.


Which only made her hair shinier, damnit.


Anyway, I grew up wanting to be dangerous and fun and sexy like her. And, I went on to make friends with all types of women like that- women who were cool and who I wanted to be. Women who can cook an entire meal for a group of friends and still look adorable. Women who can play guitar and have tattoos and their kids look like they stepped out of GQ toddler, and women who are pristine, play tennis, and always keep on the feminine side of life.


I was thinking about all of this today as I went to get my nails done. I stepped into the nail salon, drenched and soaking wet from getting caught in a storm, but I was laughing as I wrung my shirt out in front of the fully packed shop.


"Sorry!" I sang out as I made puddles wherever I went. This made me start giggling, and I was still giggling as one of the girls handed me a warm towel.


"You not mad?" she asked anxiously as she helped me mop up.


"Mad?!" I chortled. "Why would I be mad?"


"The rain." She answered in broken English. "It makes so many unhappy. I like that you are happy. You come in, you always happy. I like you."


.............


So, maybe I'm not "cool", but maybe I'll stop trying to be. This woman made me realize we're always looking at other people. We're always trying to figure them out, and be them, and not be them. Rarely we look inside and figure out the kind of person we are.


Maybe I am disheveled. Maybe I wasn't the coolest kid in high school- but I am a woman who laughs in a storm.


That's not that bad, is it?


In fact, that is pretty damn cool.