She Likes Purple

A Slow Love

Mike proposed to me one year ago today. In honor of Proposal Day (what we’ve dubbed it), I thought I’d share the story of how my husband and I met and came to be the charming couple we are today. It’s terribly fascinating and romantic, but only if you define romantic by a year of indifference spilling into a mutual crush brought on by lots of Red Bull-and-vodkas.

I heard about Mike before I met him. While at my sister’s wedding in September 2002 our sorority had a foam party. (All those mental images you’re having? Of drunken sorority girls in foam-soaked white T-shirts? SPOT ON.) Crystal brought her then-boyfriend and also Mike, who happened to be a friend of theirs. Lauren (my roommate at the time) was there, too. When I talked to Lauren later that weekend, she recapped the night for me and listed everyone who was there fairly matter-of-factly. Then she said, “And a friend of Crystal’s came who was an ass."

(Updated to add: Mike did indeed start the name calling that night, and Lauren rarely calls people an ass unless they deserve it.)

Fast forward a month: Another date party. This one in Austin with much less foam. I went. Mike went too, as the date of another mutual friend. I have fuzzy and vague-y memories of him as that friend of Crystal’s who went with that other friend of Crystal’s. I mostly remember singing Destiny's Child's “I’m a Survivor” karaoke-style on our party boat and also trying to convince my bus to play categories on the way home. Mike has fuzzy and vague-y memories of that “irritating girl who wouldn’t take no for an answer when trying to organize game time on the bus ride home.”

Skip ahead four more months: A big group of us, including Mike, went to On the Border after our sorority’s annual philanthropy event. I was more focused on my swirl margarita than on him, if we’re being honest. And, also, at that time I had a huge crush on a man who was horribly wrong for me. I wouldn’t figure that out for a while longer, though. Mike actually bowed out of dinner early, and Crystal’s now ex-husband apologized for his “mood.” I hadn’t noticed his mood. I hadn’t noticed him much at all.

Jump ahead another two months: To Crystal's engagement party—that I co-hosted. Mike came with his then girlfriend, Kristie. Crystal invited a few of us over to Mike’s house after the party for some BBQ and beer. Right before we planned to head over there, Crystal called to say she hurt her ankle and was going home. We’d all hang out another time.

A few months later: I saw Mike on campus, about 50 yards ahead of me, sitting at a table. I quickly turned and took a slight detour to class. I knew he’d see me if I got any closer, and I wouldn’t be able to avoid the small talk and, I AM A HATER OF SMALL TALK. So I avoided him.

(So, anyway, is that enough indifference for one blog?)

A few months after the small-talk avoidance-induced sprint in the wrong direction, Crystal (who had graduated and moved to Fort Worth by this time) returned to College Station for her birthday in December 2003. She asked everyone to meet her on Northgate to celebrate, and Cherie and I went together. We walked into Madhatters, the bar we were meeting at, and Mike and I made eye-contact for, possibly, the first time. He said my hair looked nice. I thanked him. And then, it occurred to me, Huh? That was a bit … unexpected. About an hour later when I got up to go to the bathroom, he asked if I wanted him to walk me. (Now, I have to pause here to chuckle a little because my husband? NOT THAT GUY. Who was that guy? That polite and chivalrous man?) I told him I'd be fine. When I got back he offered to put my drink on his tab, and that I said OK to. (Bathroom? I’ve got covered. Free drinks? YES! PLEASE!) Then I told him my birthday was coming up, and he programmed it into his phone. Until a month later, that was about it. (I’m leaving out the part where we made out on his couch later that night while Sportscenter played in the background because, you know, my mom reads this site, and even though I’m all properly married now, I don’t want her to know I was giving it away so easily back then. So let's not tell her, OK?)

After that night Mike apparently lost the ability to use a phone, and I began dating someone else. I thought it ended before it began.

That Christmas I took Natalie to California for a visit. We spent my birthday at the Monterey Bay Aquarium and while we were there I got a phone call from Mike. I sort of remember what we talked about, but mostly I remember being nervous and also thinking, You, my friend, take this wait-to-call-a-girl-concept seriously. He also called when I got back to College Station and asked if I was going up to Fort Worth to visit Crystal and her then-fiance before they moved to Connecticut. When I said I was he asked if I wanted to ride together. I told him I couldn’t, and hee made some lame-ass joke about not really wanting to ride together anyway. (And I have to laugh here too because my husband? TOTALLY THAT GUY.)

We both did go up to Fort Worth. And we spent a couple of days together, with our friends. And from that weekend in Fort Worth until today, we’ve stayed together.

Not all love stories begin with a bang or even a ding, for that matter. All that counts, I suppose, is that they begin at all.

And ours did, albeit slowly and unexpectedly. Awkwardly, even. Not many people had faith we'd make it, and I can't blame them because I didn't have much faith, early on, that we'd make it. He was scared of commitment and I was, well, scared of everything. But, we always had fun together. We have always laughed together, even during those really trying times. (Read: when we lived with his parents and had only my paychecks which were, seriously, equal to my paychecks the summer before I went to college and also Molly lived in the closet, and MY GOD was she difficult back the.n) I don't know how that laughter carried us to a year ago, to a beach in Florida, with a ring and a one-knee speech and a proposal and an emphatic yes.

But it did.

And now we're married.

It's not straight out of a movie, I'll give you that. But, then again, movies end.

(Except for Transformers which, holy crap, went on forever.)

(Kind of like this entry.)

My Wings

For years now I've wanted a second tattoo. When I was 18 I got my first on my lower back and, although I don't regret it, I wish I had spent a bit more time thinking about what I really wanted a tattoo of instead of saying: Oh, a flower is pretty. Give me that. Granted I was 18 and didn't spend much time thinking. At all.

Last night I got a butterfly tattooed on my left foot.

Before the ink. (I also feel the need to clarify that my last pedicure wasn't that long ago; the polish was recently removed.)

Obviously you can't tell from this picture, but the only words I could articulate throughout the 40-minute process were OH HOLY FUCK THIS HURTS. And it did. It hurt.

That right there is my death grip.

There it is, finished and in a lovely shade of ouch.

Mike insisted on whipping out the tripod to get a good picture sans flash when we got home. I love my husband for holding my hand during the whole ordeal and for being insistent on documenting it. After taking this last one he said to me, "Let's take more tomorrow, after you've painted your nails." And I love him for that, too.

This butterfly has meaning to me, and I love how it turned out. I know what you're thinking, Internet: What about job interviews and having a tattoo on your foot when you're 80 and it'll fade and it can't possibly look good with every pair of shoes you have (heels? espadrilles? wedges? Have you really thought about the wedges?). I appreciate the concern, I do. I've thought about each of these things (my wedges are very open-minded, I promise). They are all excellent and valid points. But they didn't stop me from doing it. If they would've stopped you, I can only recommend perhaps you shouldn't get a tattoo on your foot.

Also, let's be honest, I drink entirely too much to make it to 80.

One Of My Freebies

A few different blog ideas have been bouncing around my head today. Posts about Molly and what she got for her birthday (Note: BETTER THAN WHAT I GOT FOR MINE) or my ongoing quest to shed the fatty fat from my thighs or how my love for coke is hindering those weight-loss goals or about the laundry that won't do itself or the stupid, stupid, STUPID CW and it's ridiculous decision to cancel this for this, (Luke. I know we all need to work, but what were you thinking?) or how weather.com lied to my face today.

But somehow every few minutes, my thoughts keep coming back to this.

I never thought I'd say this, but if given three wishes— right behind wiping away our debt and spending a few months in Spain, all expenses paid— I would wish to replace Fergie in this video.

(Although I'd do away with removing my laundry from the clothesline and instead focus more on doing him.)

(I love my husband.)

(IT'S A FREEBIE LIST FOR A REASON, PEOPLE.)

A Lone Star State Of Mind

I was in New York for the last few days. And now I'm home.

It was a great trip, considering how nervous I was in anticipation of it. But, can I just put something out there and you can virtually stone me if you see fit? OK, well, New York? It's just not for me. Granted the last couple of times I've been on business, so I've seen the hell out of the inside of the convention center and random office buildings, and, oh, over-priced hotels. And very little else. But the craziness and the noise and the COST OF EVERYTHING and the people and the neon (my thought: if there isn't a giant casino and free drinks accompanying the blinding neon, I don't actually see the point) and the smells and it's just all too much for me. I want to be tough enough and cool enough to roll with it all but MY GOD WHY ARE YOU HONKING AT ME?  THE LIGHT IS RED AND THAT ELDERLY MAN JUST COLLAPSED IN FRONT OF MY CAR. WHERE EXACTLY DO YOU WANT ME TO GO?

So I've said it. I'm not entirely cut out for the city. At least not that city, because other big cities I like. (I feel as if Vegas really gets me and San Francisco, well, who doesn't love that city? Even Dallas and it's incessant desire to make you wait in traffic, no wrecks or construction necessary, is just, simply, a better fit for me.) Maybe that's the point, though. New York seems to harden you (after just two days there I told the Quizno's cashier at LaGuardia airport that her tone was unappreciated), and it also seems to make you stronger, and this country could use some stronger character, I know. (Believe me, I'm the first person to acknowledge the collective craziness of a country that thinks what's-his-name is the best person to represent us and make great big decisions for us and, oh, SPEAK ON OUR BEHALF.) So, the importance of New York and all those H&M stores isn't lost on me. I respect the city and am also in awe of the city. I also understand the city has more to offer than someone can absorb in only a couple days or even weeks (months? years?) and I've been told that if you are going at the city blindly the sense of shear dread you may feel is actually quite normal. Or is that what the nice woman told me so I'd stop hyperventilating on the street corner?

The city is just not my city, and I'm OK with that. I have a place to come back to that is mine and whose loud noises are usually just the fault of a tornado siren or a passing train or the roarings from the local high school football stadium. But we also have the best Mexican food this side of, um, Mexico. And Google our real estate prices.

Oh, and Texas has these guys:

(Feel free to ignore the Santa hat on this July post.)

I will say that this trip made me realize I am—like it or not—an adult. Business trips, getting married, mountains of debt. Adult adult adult. It's overwhelming because becoming an adult seemed to happen overnight. You're under the impression that you have time to make a few more childish mistakes and then—BOOM!—you wake up in a New York hotel, on a business trip, and you realize there's some serious things riding on you not making childish mistakes. And, um, I have more mistakes to make, world! Childish ones at that. Give me back my early twenties and I promise to nap less and screw up more, OK?

Today, though, in the Charlotte airport, I was waiting in line to board the plane when I looked down at my ticket to find my seat number. 20A! A window seat! I did a fist pump, in the air, and also sort of said in a loud voice "AWESOME!" and the lady in front of me turned around, rolled her eyes and sighed.

And this just goes to show you aging isn't a choice, but growing up is, and that man in the picture above will pump his fist in the air with me. He'll yell loudly with me. He'll chastise that rude Quizno's cashier with me. He'll help me pick up all the pieces in case the childish mistakes happen on their own, causing everything to shatter. New York has much more to offer me, I'm sure, in terms of culture, food, shoe shopping, life experiences, but it doesn't have him.

Also, as far as I could tell, Target was no where in sight.

Our Jaunt* Down Memory Lane

Mike and I went to College Station this weekend for a wedding shower. We spent last night with friends at a few bars. We laughed, we drank and, as you can see, we took quite a few pictures.

This weekend Mike and I went back to the place we met, the place we fell in love, the place we made a million memories. We left a little blue, but together, and I realized as much as I miss that little Texas town, wherever we are, together, is home. And when we can't be with one another, we take it with us. To keep us safe, to keep us grounded, to remind us how lucky we are.

I leave in the morning for New York. I'll be there through Wednesday, for work. I'm flying alone, and I'll be without company until Tuesday morning. It's a wonderful opportunity, and, yes, I'm excited (nervous, absolutely, but excited, of course), but it's always the coming home I look forward to most.

(Happy 4th birthday, Molly!)

*Hi Stephanie!

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

At lunch with my mom:

Mom: I'm getting more and more excited about our fall shows coming back.

Jennie: I know.

Mom: Like Lost!

Jennie: That's actually not coming back until January.

Mom: At least we'll have The Amazing Race.

Jennie: That's not coming back until March.

Mom: American Idol?

Jennie: January.

Mom: WHAT AM I GOING TO DO UNTIL JANUARY?

Jennie: I know, Mom. I KNOW.

If we didn't look alike, I think our priorities would give us away.

Kicking My Way Into Those Skinny Jeans

Mike and I signed up for 24-Hour Fitness memberships this past weekend. Why? Because my ass can't fit into the cute pair of shorts I bought at a huge GAP sale just three weeks ago. And because Mike is surprisingly supportive of a new work-out wardrobe. And because we also got blow-your-mind-awesome coupons from Mike’s cousin, so we only paid a fraction of what we should have paid, and fine, if you’re going to give me a gym membership for practically nothing, I suppose I should actually USE IT.

Monday morning I e-mailed Lauren to tell her if she happened to be in the market for a work-out buddy, I was her girl. We made plans to meet Wednesday night for a kick-boxing class because what better way to fit back into those shorts (that I’ve yet to wear outside of the dressing room) than with a little cardio? And, oh boy, was I excited. It hadn't dawned on me—back then—that I MIGHT NOT MAKE IT OUT OF THE CLASS ALIVE. I was a dancer in high school but what I did in that room was not coordinated or on beat or even human, and my moves were most definitely not the moves of a former dancer. I did a lot of leg jerking and pathetic jabbing and more standing than you’d think possible for a kick-boxing class. J

ody, our peppy little stick of a teacher, kept telling us how awesome!  we were all doing, and, Jody, good for you and your tight grasp on positive reinforcement, but awesome? Really? Do you think I buy that, Jody, because for the last five minutes I thought you had turned on a strobe light when, in fact, I was just seeing spots. And also, Jody, we can't all be awesome because you keep having to leave your post at the front of the room in order to stand RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME so I’ll stop flailing and spazzing and instead figure out how to “punch, punch, kick” with the rest of the class. And, just thinking out loud here, but do you think demonstrating right in front of me will do anything at all except make me want to cry? But you look just incredible in your sports bra, I will give you that.

I suppose I should blame Lauren for all this and not just because she kicks (ha) ass at kick-boxing but because she failed to mention this class was TURBO kick-boxing. When I heard this, right before the class started, I turned to dear, sweet, WITHHOLDING Lauren and said, “Turbo? Why did that woman just use the adjective ‘turbo’ when describing the next hour of our lives?” She responded with, “It’s just an adjective. It doesn’t mean anything.” She actually came up with that argument right there on the spot and her quickness stunned me so, I actually walked my (pudgy) butt into that room instead of running in the opposite direction. I will say that kick-boxing is a GENIUS. It makes you concentrate so hard on actually getting the moves down that you have very little time to consider that sharp pain in your chest. Kick-boxing, you sly devil, you. Like all exercise, even the kind I subjected myself to last night, I did feel good after it was over. I felt stronger and, already, thinner and lighter. Although after I weighed myself this morning, I wonder if that lightness was due to my brain’s lack of oxygen because the number on the scale? IT DID NOT WAVER.

All jokes aside (and you'd be frightened at how few exaggerations there actually are in this post), I'll be going back to the kick-boxing class. Not just for blog material and not just because Lauren is one of my most favorite people to spend time with (despite her fails-to-mention-key-pieces-of-information quirk) but because my body deserves to work better than it currently does, and the only way that can happen is if I push myself.

And also because when I got home last night, Mike said to me (after I told him just how awkward I moved it and shook it in class), "I'm still proud of you. Don't give up." And, ah crap, how can I bail on the class after that?

But, I'm fairly sure I'll need some new kick-boxing shoes. If I can't be good at it, I might as well be cute while doing it. And cute is an adjective that means quite a lot.

(Happy two-month anniversary, baby! Go us!)

Mike's Famous Past

Today (or yesterday perhaps) I read this and it reminded me of one of my favorite Mike stories. Back when this happened, Mike and I weren't married, so when he made me promise not to blog about it, I agreed because, you know, I WANTED A RING.  

About a year ago, I co-hosted a baby shower for my now sister-in-law—Mike's sister. I was in charge of the invitations, and they were adorable, if I do say so myself. Richelle wanted to invite an old friend, an ex-girlfriend of Mike's, coincidentally. But, no one could remember her married name.

Mike: I can't even remember her maiden name.

Jennie: Seriously? You can't remember your ex-girlfriend's last name?

M: Kelly.... Kelly....

J: [Thinking if I ever become Mike's ex-girlfriend, BY GOD, he will remember my last name, if I have to stalk him in order to carve it into his memory.]

M: CLARKSON! That's it!

J: Really?

M: Yep.

J: You dated Kelly Clarkson?

M: Oh, wait. That's not it.

A Paler Shade Of Green

Mike and I are nearing our two-month wedding anniversary. Sound the trumpets, Internet! We're kicking this marriage thing's ass! OK, so we're probably going about it fairly normally. There are bumps, obstacles, kinks, all that makes up real life. We laugh through a lot of things, which is not a bad way to get by, but we also have our fair share of FREAKING OUT and yelling and getting paranoid. (And those are just my responses of choice.)

We live in a house I'm sometimes embarrassed to live in because so many of our friends live in nicer houses. We drive a car that sometimes embarrasses me to drive because so many people we know drive nicer cars. Our recent vacation (our honeymoon) was on someone else's dime and that embarrasses me because we're college educated and we can't afford an island getaway unless someone else is coughing up the dough. Basically, I'm human, and it makes it hard to keep perspective sometimes. I have to consciously remind myself how happy I was when we moved into our duplex, last September. How I'd stand in our driveway and I'd smile that this place was ours (and our landlords, but you get the sentiment). I was so full of gratitude back then that this life, it was mine. And since then something has chipped away at me. Perhaps it's that so many people we are surrounded by have a few nicer things than we do. (I am aware that things are just that and a Louis Vuitton handbag does not a full life make, but there's a rational side to me and also an emotional one, and sometimes the emotional one beats the shit out of the rational side and wins the right to occupy my head.) It's hard to admit you feel a little jealous, because you have so much to be thankful for and feeling jealous, well how pathetic and ridiculous is that? Also, I spent years overcoming the natural pull of jealousy, so now, when I feel a random pang I bury it in fear I'm reverting back to the girl I was a few years ago. I refuse to acknowledge my jealousy because there is no way I'm jealous because I am not a jealous person. That was the old me. The new me is centered and grounded and would never think to be jealous of your mansion or your car or your fancy new purse, you lucky undeserving whore. Not jealous AT ALL, got that?

Although, obviously, I sometimes am.

I'm jealous because Mike and I work really hard at staying afloat, and I feel we deserve more than we have. I am jealous because what we do have, we're generous about sharing, and others? Not so generous. I am jealous because we made bad choices and those choices aren't going away. (Credit reports never forget, and, seriously, would it have killed my high school guidance counselor to have mentioned that.) I'm jealous because other people's bad choices can sometimes be wiped away, and our bad choices continue to stare at us, daily, in the form of bills and notices and dreams that can't be realized anytime soon. And then I get really upset with myself for being jealous or for having these feelings to begin with because so our house is a little modest, it has a roof and I know how many people can't say that. And so many of my dreams have come true. (See every wedding picture on my flickr account.) So I'm jealous and unappreciative. Wow, I'm awesome.

The other night we were talking with some friends about their good news, and Mike was in the other room. He walked in, mid-conversation, and Mike was filled in on the life-changing news. Mike responded with, "That's great." And, people, he meant it. I froze, reminded of why I'm so in love with this man. He's the least jealous/judgmental person I know. He doesn't envy anyone. He's content with his life and he always gives people the benefit of the doubt because he would want that in return. He makes this world what he wants it to be, and he makes me want to do the same. He knows we don't have much and we probably deserve more than we do have, but he figures it'll come when it's meant to come and until then, let's just watch some Mythbusters and eat some popcorn and call it a day. He revels in our ordinary, budgeted life, because he knows it'll get us to a better life one day. In short, the man has patience and perspective and he knows that just because someone else's house is pretty, problems are universal, and they're bound to have their fair share hidden behind their Ralph Lauren painted walls. He understands all of this and has red hair to boot, and it floors me sometimes how mature this very immature man can be.

During our wedding planning, we were let down by some people. And it shocked me to my core that these people weren't there for us. I became indignant and spiteful. I said to Mike one night, "Fine. We just won't be there for them. We'll stop putting so much effort into the relationship if the effort isn't reciprocated." And I meant it, I was that upset. He said to me, very calmly, "No, we won't do that. We'll keep caring. We'll keep giving. We'll go to their weddings and send them birthday cards. Because that's who we want to be." 

I have a jealous nature. I get it from my father, and I know that. But I married a man who is nothing like me (or my father). And he makes me want to be better, and when I tell him my feelings, especially those feelings I'm entirely not proud of, he tells me, "That's OK." And he means it.

And it's because of him I know our life— our marriage—will never fall short, no matter what jealous feelings hit me from time to time. We have a very beautiful life, and, because of my husband, I wouldn't change a thing.

And I mean that.

The Aftermath

I love my family, but I never said they weren't exhausting.

Too Use To Goodbye

My dad and brother were here for the last couple of days. In preparation for their visit, Mike and I cleaned like never before. I gave up at about midnight on Wednesday night, but Mike? He did not. I came home on Thursday to a damn near perfectly clean house. Since our house is usually in such disarray, I tell my mom to wait in the car when she comes to pick me up, I am not above posting pictures and bragging.

My brother has always been one of my favorite people. I was eleven when he was born, and I remember him at every age, even if I only saw him a few times a year. I remember him at one, at five, at eight, at 11. He was always my sweet little brother, never too embarrassed to hug me, to tell me he loved me. He's now 14 and, well, my sweet little brother is now a teenager. It's hard seeing him grow up and become more like a normal teenager and less like the little boy I remember so well. But is he ever cute (and, trust me, he'll be the first to tell you he—indeed—is). 

The rest of the pictures from their visit are here. We took in two movies, ate at a few fabulous restaurants, visited the stockyards in Fort Worth, played games (I didn't win a single round), drank margaritas (I get the love of them from my dad, it seems). It was nice to have them here. It was hard to say goodbye.

I miss them already. 

He Had Just Won A Game Of Sorry

Taken during game night at our house, by my brother's cell phone.

Enjoying Mama's Day Off

Molly, taken by my brother's cell phone, as we toured Fort Worth. 

The No-Point Post

I'm just about ready to scrapbook the last year of our lives. I needed to wrap up our wedding announcements and our thank-you cards (brought to you by Paper Source) and also a few other things (like screaming at the TV during One Tree Hill's season three finale) before I could kick start this wedding scrapbooking project. But, other than a few visits to Recollections and some print purchases from Shutterfly, I am basically at square one. Any tips? Suggestions? Must haves? Awesome Web sites that can basically tell me exactly how to create the most perfect scrapbook? Possibly a monetary donation?

In other news, I'm getting a tattoo (#2) soon. It'll be of a black-and-white butterfly, on the inside of my left heel. Pictures, of course, to come.

Also, my dad and little brother are coming to visit tomorrow for a short-but-sweet trip (they leave Saturday). I'm pretty excited, except now I have to clean my house. I wonder, when my dad walks into our little duplex—and is forced to step over dust bunnies and 18 piles of dirty laundry—if he'll be appeased by my saying: "But, Dad, see I couldn't clean because I was blogging."

Oh, and I think I have an in-grown fingernail because my right ring finger HURTS. And I'm about to start posting thoughts that don't include the letters in the top-right corner of the keypad—the keys that the right ring finger has to peck.

Then there's Texas. Oh sweet heavens. THREE DAYS? That's all the sunshine we get? Seriously? You hate me, don't you? You want me to be miserable and WORST OF ALL, you want my tan to fade? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? Apparently my threats mean NOTHING to you.

Oh, and since it's been AGES since I've posted a picture of my baby girl, here she is, thinking: Mama, please put down my squirrel. I know you're holding him up in the air to get me to look at the camera. BUT NEITHER HE NOR I FIND YOU THE LEAST BIT CHARMING:

All May Be Forgiven

Could it be true?

Texas, as long as you get me through this weekend without canceling our very expensive concert or preventing us from floating down the Comal River (all drunk and improving our already-there tan), I'll let you take me out next weekend.

If you also pinky promise to do something about all of these bastard mosquitoes. And the spiders. And while you're at it, buy me shoes.

Mike and I are off! For the weekend! To see friends, family and Blue October. And if all goes well and Texas DOES WHAT IT'S DAMN WELL TOLD, I'll return on Sunday, happy and with a full memory card.

A Match Made In A Crowded Bar

Thanks to Robbi for taking pictures of the bride and groom that perfectly convey what sort of form we were in during our wedding reception.

Two thoughts come to mind when I see this: 1) Oh sweet goodness, who kept giving the bride drinks and 2) It seems like something on my shoulder is turning Mike on.

Seriously, Jennie. PUT YOUR ARMS DOWN.

Here we're acting out a scene from Family Guy when the guys perform Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" at a karaoke bar. What's Mike doing? Holding an air microphone.

And this is from the day after the wedding—the only good picture I have of my "Mrs. Canzo" hoodie.

Choices

So, I want to lose weight, as I mentioned in my last post. But it's not that simple (it never is), so I'm going to share a little of my background with you. It's not all pretty and this post has absolutely no funny dialog or pictures of Molly.  

Longer than some of my longest relationships, longer than my relationship with Mike (nearly three-and-a-half years) or my relationship with Natalie (just about 14) I've had a relationship with my weight. Nothing—not success, love, education—has been more of a consistent contributing factor to my contentment in life than how much I have weighed at any given moment. I'm closer to normal—today—than I've ever been, but for years normal was a very foreign concept for me.

I was bulimic for about five years. Beginning the summer before my sophomore year in high school, lasting well into college. I'm comfortable talking about that time because it's not a life I still live, and that girl—I remember her well—desperately wanted to be liked and validated. The least I can do for her is not deny she existed. Even though I find myself much stronger and more secure now issues with my weight remain. Unfortunately, this makes me like millions of other women in the world—in our country especially.

Last summer I lost nearly 30 pounds in a way I'm proud of. I ate less. I lost weight. No crash diets, no wacky programs, no unhealthy habits resurfacing. But throughout the last year it's crept back on, pound by pound, slice of pizza by slice of pizza. I was not as thin as I would have liked to have been on my wedding day or on my honeymoon. And I do realize there's a good chance I've never been thin enough as my perception of myself, even today, has always been fairly critical and somewhat out-of-touch (again, making me like millions). My wedding day was the happiest day of my life, and the wedding pictures (all 8,000 of them) are quite amazing, but there are a few I cringe at.

Women are cruel to each other and even crueler to ourselves. We whisper about the pounds she's put on, while secretly remembering the cheesecake we inhaled by the kitchen sink at 2am, hating ourselves much more than we could ever hate her. But we tear her apart, don't we? So we can distract ourselves from self-loathing for at least a little while. I've learned how to be much kinder to myself over the past few years but I haven't learned how to maintain a healthy weight, a healthy body. I am struggling to figure out how to be my biggest fan without letting myself off the exercise hook time and time again. How do I occasionally eat fries while still recognizing myself in pictures? How do I cut back without falling into old ways?

It's tough to be honest about my thoughts on weight and dieting and health because those who know me tense up, I know, every time I bring up my past with bulimia in the same breath as I mention my current dissatisfaction with my weight. I joked, around the time of our wedding, I was going to starve myself in order to be a cute bride. I got a lot of nervous laughter from those who remember well. Even all this time later, those who stood witness to my time in hell can't bring themselves to laugh at jokes about eating disorders. Even if I can. I understand that. They worked just as hard at keeping me afloat as I worked at trying to drown. I also know it doesn't ease their worries that I don't believe you "recover" from an eating disorder. (This is my opinion, and it may not be yours if you have experience. I realize and respect that.) To me, you don't "recover" but instead you make a choice, every day. You learn to choose relationships and jobs and life experiences over dying. And even though it's pushed to the back of our hearts, minds, metaphorical closets, it's not pushed out the door. We keep it around, always as an option, because that's how we move on. It's easier to walk away from something we know will be waiting for us if we ever return. I have walked back occasionally, but there's always something that stops me from diving back in, head first. I don't know how to articulate what stops me any better than to say, I want more than that. I've felt happiness and I want more of it, and, for me, I can't have both.

Mike and I want a child. One day. Soonish. But I won't be a fraud. I won't turn to my potential daughter and impart lessons on security, on a healthy body image, on how to achieve balance while I continue to struggle with my own shit. Which brings me to the point of all of this: I'm on a journey to lose weight—again. But more than that, I'm on a journey to keep the weight off while learning how to stop obsessing about the weight. Quite the task to take on, I know.

For years I lied. To myself, my friends, my mother. I think with addictions, on any scale, you must lie to keep hold of them. It's hard to admit you were a liar but I was. I chose to lie for years. I've since chosen to stop. I spent years writing the truth (journaling) and not sharing a word of it with anyone. But, somewhere along the way, I found my voice. No matter who judges or scrutinizes the words I offer up, my voice is mine. And I celebrate that because for so long it wasn't. That's why I have this site, why I string words together in hopes they'll make some sense to someone, why I try. Although I sometimes shake uncontrollably after I hit publish, I have to use my voice. It's important I do this.

My real motivation this time around is my desire to enjoy being pregnant one day. One thing I can control is how much I weigh when I become pregnant. I want to be OK with my pregnancy weight gain, with the changes I will go through. I don't want to hate those nine months because I'm adding on to a number I hated to begin with. I want to look at every picture taken from the moment I become pregnant on, and I want to see myself. Not just my image, but the self I know.

This is going to be hard, as I've lost weight before but, obviously, it hasn't stayed off. So I know the work isn't over once the weight is gone. The work, truly, will have just begun. And although I do think I'm strong, I don't know if I'm strong enough. Just like everything in life, it will come down to a choice. I know this.

The difference? I now believe in my ability to choose.

Coping

I'm trying to lose weight. I realize that makes today like every other day in my 25-year existence. But this time my weight-loss goals are accompanied by a long, rambl-y and very soberly written post, one void of sarcasm with no references to my shoes. That post needs to be proofread a few dozen more times before I can post it so for now this post has nothing to do with my weight loss. This particular post is about a mongoose. What else would it be about? Seriously.

On our honeymoon we visited the Annaberg ruins. Nice enough place, as far as ruins go, but attractions such as these hold my attention for a good 15 minutes before I either need a cocktail or I need to leave. Finally, Mike was ready to leave. And if we hadn't left at JUST that moment, we would have missed a scene straight out of When Animals Attack.

We began walking down the hill (toward the car, toward AIR CONDITIONING, toward raspberry coladas) when we stumbled upon this little guy:

Wildlife! Hi iguana! Wait, what's that in the background? More wildlife! Hi mongoose!

  We walked a few more steps. Huh? The mongoose seems to be darting toward the iguana; probably just saying hello. Sweet little mongo.... what the—?

That face the mongoose is making? Not particularly inviting. A few iguana tail slaps and mongoose body lunges later, we realized this was not a friendly jungle encounter. Mike then did what Mike does best: he acted like a decent guy. He intervened and tried to scare the mongoose off:

You can't tell because I've cropped and zoomed a bit here, but I was running toward the bottom of the hill while taking this (and every other) picture. I only put myself in the line of fire if the line of fire is a shoe sale. I flee much better than I fight and unfortunately I have two immediate instincts when a crisis ensues: 1) push whoever is with me toward the dangerous situation (gives me a leg up while fleeing) and 2) take pictures as I flee. I'm not proud of these responses but needless to say as Mike tried to ward off the mongoose, I went running in the opposite direction, all the while snapping photos and screaming up the hill: "GOOD JOB BABY! SAVE THE IGUANA!"

Mike caught up with me a moments later and said, "Phew, that was close! Don't worry, the mongoose ran away." For all of five seconds we were feeling pretty good about how everything turned out. We both turned and looked back up the hill at the exact same time and what did we see but this:

And this:

And about five seconds after that the feisty mongoose had drug that little and dead iguana right into the woods.

As we walked to our car, feeling blue for the iguana and shocked that mongooses (mongeese?) are such bitches, I said to Mike:

"I don't know if I would have believed someone if they had told me a week ago the words 'mongoose attack' would soon mean something to me."

"Seriously."

"We're still getting a raspberry colada, right?"

See part three of my crisis-coping skills: