Wherein I reference both Kate Chopin AND my ass.

So (anyone notice how I start off a lot of paragraphs/sentences with “so”? I think it’s my most overused word. I blame my mother). Anyhoo, I’ve been spending a lot of time working on this story that grew from a little teeny blog entry into a nearly 20,000 word essay. And if you want to know how long 20,000 words is, let’s just say that you can hear a small tree screeching in pain every time I print it out for review. Writers, by nature, kill a great many trees. This is something I can’t seem to get around, despite my good intentions of only printing when absolutely necessary and my tendency to utilize both sides of every sheet of paper. Don’t even get me started on how confusing that can be when you mix up the pages and go from some emotional prose into a blog entry on how awful this persons breath was in line at Starbucks. It’s like reading Kate Chopin on acid.

Regardless, this little teeny blog entry has somewhat taken over my life. A shorter version of it is to be printed in a magazine later this year (hurrah! drinks on me!) but it now has a life of its own and I find myself waking up at night thinking “Oh YES! I must add THIS!” and peppering post it notes throughout the house with ideas as they come to me. Marc often finds them stuck to his forehead, which is handy as I can sit across from him, listening to his chatter, and simultaneously be in deep thought over a particularly difficult sentence. This is marital multi-tasking at its best. “You have to go to the hospital for what now? Crap…I think this sentence has a dangling participle in it. Stupid grammar.” Don’t worry, he doesn’t listen to me either. It’s how we keep the peace.

My point being that I think I’m finally coming to the end of where I can take this thing, which is a great relief, as my head has been putting in requests for some space/time to think about other things. Like, how it’s sunny out! And how bikini season is almost upon us! And Sweet Mary and Moses – will my ass fit into said bikini? Perhaps we should think about vacationing somewhere that doesn’t involve a beach? And then a panic attack ensues and I go and eat a sandwich and watch Millionaire Matchmaker. Perhaps just focusing on my story is a better idea…for my intellectual health, if nothing else.

Shit. Now I’m all concerned about my ass.

Tequila, 3. Angie/Jen, 0.

SO, the dress shopping endeavor ended up being so efficient that we were in and out of the store within 15 minutes. The person who took our parking spot must have thought they were on the receiving end of some excellent karma as we left the meter with nearly an hour of time still on it. In North Beach.

This is not to say that the store didn't have anything worth trying on. Incidentally, there were four dresses that could have been fabulous. HOWEVER, even with TWO HOURS LEFT before closing, they were not allowing any more fittings because two other brides were already there, in line for the changing rooms. WHATEVER. I asked if we couldn't just hunker down in a corner and I'd, like, hold up a sheet or something to act as a modesty panel for Angie while she changed. I don't think this particular establishment was willing to stoop quite so low even in the name of a sale and the proprietor said, "Um, NO. But you could come back next weekend during normal business hours and try on the dresses." "But we're here NOOOOOOOOoooooowwww," I wheedled. She would not be moved (hence my dislike for shop people...so unbending!), so we left and comforted ourselves with several margaritas. How many? you ask? I shan't tell, but let's just say the bartender commented that we must not have much planned for the rest of the day, given our consumption. Don't judge us. Those were 15 exhausting minutes of sifting through what looked like reject costumes for the next season of IceCapades. My retinas are still burning from all of the beading and sequins. The tequila was purely medicinal.

So! Next weekend we hope to get more done and perhaps find The Dress. We shall see. Because as any woman who has gotten married knows, you just have a visceral reaction to the dress that is the One. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to look like walking down the aisle (read = HOT), but wasn't sure what that would translate into, frock wise. After a few weekends of trolling around San Francisco and wondering how it was that so many dresses existed that were so outrageously ugly and then also expensive, I finally found the one that made all others melt away. It was simple...nothing to write home about on the hanger, but when I put it on, I actually burst-into-tears in the dressing room before coming out to show my friends. I'm not really the bursting into tears sort, so I knew that that kind of reaction meant something. And to this day, I loved how I looked on my wedding day in that gown, despite the huge red wine stain that ended up decorating the front by evenings end. Hey, it was a great reception. It happens.

I have faith that we'll find something excellent for Angie. And she'll look stunning, because no matter what she wears down that aisle, the fact that she'll be looking at Mike at the other end, full of happiness and ready to tell him that she's going to love him forever, well, that will make her more beautiful than any dress ever could. Truly.

Wow. That's a lot of sentiment for a Monday, no? This being said, perhaps we could just wrap her up in a white sheet and be done with it? Maybe? Yes? It would leave more time for margaritas! Hey-o!

Finding the Frock

I am not a fully functioning girl. Well, not in THAT way. All systems are go where they ought to be, if you catch my drift. But! I seemed to have missed the day in girl school when they told you to love things like Shopping! Hair products! Lip gloss! Spending time in the bathroom! Shopping! Endless chats on the phone! Shopping! Shopping! In fact, shopping makes me break out into hive like sores. I dislike it to such a degree that I have feigned illness when I’ve known it was on a friend’s agenda. You want to shop? I’m sorry, but I need to stay near home. I’ve had an attack of angina.

This is strange in that I love clothes. Adore them. Consider myself something of a fashion expert. Hilarious, since I spend most of my day in sweats, yelling at people. After which I come home and put on my Official Eating Pants. So it’s not like I’m trotting around in couture and Jimmy Choo’s, though I long for a life that would require more of that.

Regardless, my darling friend Angie decided to go and get married. And, as one knows, THE DRESS is one of the most important parts of that entire affair. Since I’m bossy and will plan out your life for you if you let me (actually, who am I kidding? I’ll do that for you even if you don’t want me to), I named myself her stylist. This works for several reasons: a. I’m not going to let my friend walk down that aisle looking anything other than totally magnificent and b. Angie hates to shop ALMOST as much as I do. SO! We’ve come up with a battle plan for finding her the perfect dress. Which means that I do a bunch of research online (in the Official Eating Pants…with snacks) and then we do a blitz-kreig like few days of stalking my research down, killing it and dragging it home for further inspection. Sort of a hunting/gathering type enterprise, if you will. We are efficient! And do not let shop people deter us from our goal! (We do not like shop people). Though if you are a cute, small, gay man you’ll definitely get our undivided attention…for at least five minutes…longer if you compliment Angie on her hair. She’s susceptible like that. Also, we agree that small, gay men are made out of the Baby Jesus, kittens and butterflies.

So, this weekend will include such an expedition. We plan to rock the shit out of it. Me, as Angie’s bitch, and Angie, racing around in all sorts of complicated underwear that one needs when one is trying on The Most Important Frock Ever. Pray for us. We’ll need it. That and the flask of tequila I plan to bring along. For sustenance and wise decision making. I am, if nothing else, prepared.

Keeping your ass up by your ears. My new tagline.

So, I've made a few of my clients cry. And not because of something I said, but rather because I've pushed them past their happy place and have ushered them into the zone of punishing pain. Is it terrible that my reaction to their tears is "GOOD! NOW WE'RE GETTING SOMEWHERE!"? And, when I hear their cries of, "You are SUCH a sadist!" my reply is, "You've just earned yourself 10 more reps!"

Clearly, I have issues. It fills me with unparalleled glee that I get to boss people around for a living - that they pay me to tell me what to do for an hour of their day. The pathology of this type of behavior would give some psychologist years of material, I'm sure. My own therapist hasn't even delved into how my day job fulfills my Type A personality. I'm sure she's worried that if she went too deep I would command that she drop and give me 20. She'd probably listen, too. I could totally take her.

Regardless of my deranged delight, I'm really not a heartless shrew and would rather that you didn't leave a session with a puffy and reddened face. That's hardly the point. So the other day, when a client started blubbering on the reformer due to the intensity of some leg work, I DID stop and ask her if she was alright. As the tears poured down her face, she wailed, "THIS IS JUST SO HARD!" "Well, yes," I replied. "If it was easy, everyone would do it and I would be out of a job. Your ass, also, would not be up by your ears but making its way slowly down towards your ankles." She laughed and blew her nose and then continued with the offending presses until the set was finished. She got up, a wee bit wobbly and said, "You know, you should really offer tranquilizers with your sessions." I've known her for a while - meaning I can be rather irreverent without the worry of offending her. "Well, I WAS thinking of offering a line of cocaine during warmup, but that would just bump my hourly rate up too much, and we're in a recession."

"I don't know," she replied. "I think you might find a niche market there...plus, think of the weight loss benefits!"
"Think of the insurance difficulties!" I exclaimed.
"Everyone would be high...who would care?" she said.
"True. My mother would totally not approve of this conversation."
"She also wouldn't approve of your top. Too much of your bosom is showing. But! If you offered people the option of doing a line of coke off of your chest before their session...wow...you'd never have to advertise for clients, like, EVER."
"Sweet Mary. What would that business card look like?"
"A hundred dollar bill...you know...to snort the coke with."

So you see, what I cause in pain I make up for in interesting conversation. It's called balance.

Can you buy some if you've lost it?

I’ve been running a lot lately. This is not a new activity for me, though it has been considerably slowed over the years due to several knee injuries, a hip problem and some raging sciatica. Of course, this might be my bodies way of telling me that perhaps I should take up something lighter - say, dominos - but my usual m.o. is to turn a deaf ear to common sense, complain and use up all of the ice in the freezer to calm the swelling of my aching joints. So! Onward!

I weave a nice little path around town that has grown from four miles to six – progress! Kylie is usually with me, her tongue hanging down to her knees, wondering why her mom is punishing her by making her dash by all vertical objects that she would normally be sniffing and/or peeing on. But we must GO! RUN! IMPROVE OUR TIME! It’s also one of the rare hours during the day when no one can get a hold of me and I get some thinking done. Like, why am I watching Millionaire Matchmaker? Do I like Ben Harper? What do I think about the theory of Intelligent Design? Was I showing too much cleavage at dinner with my mother the other day? Is Obama getting any sleep at night? Heady stuff, I’m telling you.

But yesterday, I was just floating along without much going on between my ears. It had been a nice Monday. My hip wasn’t hurting. Kylie was keeping apace and not pulling me towards every promising shrub. The sun was out and it’s supposed to be almost 70 all week. Life was good. I was nearing home with about one more mile to go; the first part meanders through a park.

Now, I understand that spring is springing. People are coming out of their winter doldrums and waking up to the fact that – wooo! summer is nearly here! we’re coming out of the inky jaw of rain and early evenings! And isn’t this traditionally the time when people’s thoughts turn to love? Didn’t some douchebag at Hallmark coin that phrase? Well, SOMEONE had been trolling the card aisle at their local Longs, because SWEET LORD, there was a couple GOING AT IT on the lawn in the park around which I was running. And I couldn’t really avoid looking at them since they were the only other people there.

Now, it had rained the day prior, and there was no discernible blanket beneath them, but there was a lot of rolling around and moaning going on, so I got a pretty clear shot of what appeared to be well embedded grass stains on both the asses and backs of the love birds. And you know what’s sad? That my first thought wasn’t “That’s HOT! Good work you two!” It was “Those stains are going to be a BITCH to get out later! Didn’t they at least think this through enough to put down a towel or something?” Because God forbid someone should give into the urges of passion on a spring day and enjoy a good make-out session without worrying about whether they have enough stain stick at home to warrant such an amorous activity.

I was still thinking about it when I got home later. And how it shows that I've reached a certain time in my life when I think about the consequences of an endeavor...or rather how much work any given action might cause me...before I partake in it. This either shows a growing wisdom, or just that I'm aged and preparing to be a crotchety old woman who pokes her grandkids with her walking stick and says things like, "SHUT YOUR WORD HOLE! MY TALKIES ARE ON!"

Either way, have I lost my spontaneity? I'm worried.

Blaze

So I'm in the middle of some Auto Driven Angst. Deep in its treacherous jaws, in fact. It will come as a surprise to only a few of you (the rest knowing well my attachment to my car) that I've had the same car for, like, ever. Since 1993. I can't even count back that far, my degree in stupid math only taking me as far as eleventeen. It's the longest relationship I've ever had in my life, and many of my friends who see me after years apart will first say "So great to see you, you stunning thing, you!" followed by "You're STILL driving THAT?" Yes, I am. Suck on it.

It's been a good car. It's a CUTE car. It somehow looks like me. I love vintage things, things that have some sort of history, some sort of personality, and this car has soul to spare. She's seen me through graduations, through break-ups, through job successes and losses. I've spent nights pounding the steering wheel in frustration while driving around, trying to figure out my life. The back seat has seem some action - ahem - as has the front. It's a sporty ride, has stupendous rear vision, and a trunk that could easily fit a body...though I've never tried. Really. The list of Things That Drive Other People Crazy is long and vast, but I'm willing to forgive faulty electrics, a malfunctioning AC and a loud steering shaft and chalk it up to things that just make my car unique, if not blisteringly hot in the summer time. Whatever. Open your window.

But I'm now on the cusp of being willing to upgrade to a car that has a few more amenities. Namely, automatic locks, a radio that works and power steering. And airbags. I rented a car this last weekend while I was down in SoCal and was driving my friends around going "OOOOO - look at the knobs! Check out how loud I can make the stereo go! Look! I can just push this button and ALL OF THE DOORS UNLOCK!" And they looked at me quizzically, my friend Andrea finally saying, "You know, Jen, those are standard features these days." But the thought of getting rid of Blaze (yes, that's her name) makes me feel like someone is shoving broken glass into my heart. I know that seems somewhat dramatic given that she is an inanimate being, something that no amount of anthropomorphizing will bring to life, but I think it's what she represents that is hard to give up.

I bought my car from my dad. I paid my father off within a year, proudly showing up each month with my car payment, giving him a check for the remaining balance a year early so that I wouldn't have to be beholden to him. It was my first adult purchase, and tangible evidence that I could take care of myself. So when I look at my car, it's not just a mode of transportation, it's also a material reminder that somewhere along the way, I became grown up. And when I still don't feel that way, when I feel like I've failed in some catastrophic manner, I can get into my car, drive around with the three windows down that work and reconnect with the part of me that knows how to be an adult.

I'm sure there are some of you who are rolling their eyes thinking, "Jesus, it's a CAR." But I'll bet if you think about it, there is something in your life that you hold on to quite tightly, if only because it reminds you of a part of yourself that is easily lost in the chaotic quagmire that life can sometimes be. I have a friend who owns a suit that ceased to fit her long ago but got her a few kick ass jobs when she was in her 20's - for her it represents a time in her life that wherein her ambition was allowed to run free as it's now been housed by motherhood. Another of my friends will never let go of an old boyfriends gross sweatshirt because that time in her life taught her how to let go in love, and though the boy is long gone, the lessons have served her well throughout the years. And so, while my car might not be something I can stash away in a closet, it's dear to me, and I'm allowed to be emotional about the thought of letting it go.

I'm not quite there yet, but sometime this year, Blaze will be given a proper burial. Or at least I will hand her off to someone who has the time and money to put into her what she needs to keep running for many more years. And I know, each time I see a little red BMW floating down the freeway, my heart will weep a wee bit. But I suppose that's part of being an adult too, not letting material things define you. Though let it be known, I think it's much easier to build character when you have such a cute little car to zip around in. Sigh.

If semi-conductors turn you on...

People often raise their eyebrows at me when the find out that I live a scant three miles from the very house I grew up in. Mountain View, in fact, borders Los Altos, which is where I was born and bred. "You still live here?" "Wow...do you not get out much?" "You're a native?" Yes, Depends and Yes. Unusual things for this region which is chaotic in its diversity and plentiful in its transplants. I rarely meet people who are originally from here, though that's one of the things I like most about the Bay Area. That and wide variety of engineers to choose from on any given Saturday night. WOOOooooo! Pocket protectors!

Honestly, though, one of the best things about living here is the ease in which one can escape the urban sprawl and be out, up in the hills, surrounded by nothing. On Friday night, it dawned on me that trail running might be a nice way to start the weekend. Check it out, bishes. Ten minutes from home I get to be on a trail that, if I really tried, I could run to the ocean. I spent my Friday evening enjoying the sun and fresh air. In March. Then I went out, looking for nerds. And this is why I pay almost 10% in sales tax. Eat your hearts out.

A perilous, raging sea of boobs

Hi, everyone! Has anyone noticed? That I’ve not been updating? Oh good. I didn’t think anyone was suffering, so I’m glad to see you’re all humming along, business per usual. I’ll go back to my champagne and meat-on-a-stick over here and stop worrying…

…wait, what? Oh. I see. You need a distraction from work. Or however it is that you spend your day. Well, honestly, I can’t really give a good reason for not having written in a while. I’ve just been busy practicing my trust-falls with Kylie with some kung-fu added in just to mix things up. She has a mean high kick and will mess a bitch up.

Actually, I was in Los Angeles and Santa Barbara through the weekend for both business and pleasure. I’ll not divulge details of the trip to protect the guilty, but let’s just say there were many late nights, some Mamma Mia!, and Britainy asked for all of us not to judge her for accidentally falling in love with a gay man. It happens, honey.

What I can tell you is that each time I’m in LA, I have an almost overwhelming urge to dye my hair brown, if only because suddenly I blend into the sea of blonds and I like to be a little bit dif’frant, if I can help it. At least my hair is now quite short and I do not have enormous breasts, two things that seem to be mutually exclusive in the lower regions of California. I was in a coffee shop on Monday morning and a girl walked up to me. She was 80% boob, 10% hair and 10% perk. Which is annoying at almost any time of day, but especially when I’m still working my way out of the deep maw of sleep. “OOOOO!” she squealed! “WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR HAIR DYED???”

If you read this blog, you’ll know my thoughts on this question. If you’re new here, let’s just say that when people ask me this, I’m about as thrilled as when I note that I have an upcoming gynecological exam. Which is to say, not very.

I mumbled that it is, in fact, natural. And she went, “OOOOOOOOO – YOU’RE SO LUCKY! I HAVE TO GET MY ROOTS TOUCHED UP EVERY TWO WEEKS! OOOOOOOOOO!” You poor dear. What a hassle. She was sporting a very impressive rack, the contents of which she was pleased to be showing off, given her plunging neckline and multitude of necklaces that rested in her ample cleavage. It was somewhat distracting given her tendency to bounce up and down each time she spoke, her breasts coming perilously close to taking my eye out each time she jiggled. I let a glazed smile wash over my face as she pontificated further on the work it took to be her. I think my lack of response finally set in, as she ordered her coffee and went springing off elsewhere. I contemplated how long it would be before I could take a healing nap.

I was next in line and the guy behind the register took my order for tea. He then said “Do you want a shot of whiskey in that?” I looked up at him quizzically, to which he responded, “After dealing with that kind of enthusiasm this early in the morning, I thought you might want to add something a little stronger to your tea. You could have died if one of her tits had sprung loose.”

Indeed.

No more rhyming now, I mean it! Anybody want a peanut?

So I spent most of the Lord’s Day inspecting my pores in a magnifying mirror and cleaning out my fridge. Clearly, I’m living on the edge. Though I can safely say with the onset of middle age that my pores have expanded to such a size, should I ever need a place to keep my spare change, I have a few built in pockets on my face. Don’t ask me why I was spending so much time with my skin inches away from a mirror. It had a lot to do with a renegade bottle of wine (which is most definitely NOT on my current health plan, but since my doctor doesn’t read this, I figure I’m safe) and too much time. Also, my manservant doesn’t work on the weekends, hence my foray into the fridge. It’s alarming what lies beneath my collection of jams and mustards. I donned a pair of gloves (which made me look as though I was primed to administer a rectal examination) and got to work. Two hours later I had a pristine icebox, the glories of which I would post here if I weren’t sure that it would wreck your week given its mind-boggling perfection.

I spent Thursday night with my sister, Steph, and she shared a little idea with me that I’m considering installing in my own home. Apparently, one of her friends takes photographs of how she would like her cupboards to look and tapes the pictures to the insides of the doors so that her husband and children will know what goes where. I immediately clapped my hands together and said “THAT IS GENIUS!” Steph agreed and we toasted our Type A Neurotic Tendencies that we’re sure stem from our mother and her German Heritage. It’s nice to know that when people point at us and ask, “From where comes your crazy?” that we have such a definitive place at which to direct the blame. I’m considering using this photo method of instruction in several different places with helpful captions lest there be confusion - How to Load the Dishwasher: Leave Room Between the God Damned Silverware. Where the Pots and Pans Go: It’s Not in the Oven! The Proper Stacking of Tupperware: Keep the Lids With the Proper Container for Christ’s Sake. I’ll make an album of sorts. It would be helpful for everyone and bring my blood pressure down, ergo a win-win all around. Admittedly, this is my version of porn, pictures of all of my cupboards in pristine condition...the thought of everyone following suit and putting things in their rightful place makes me want to get naked immediately.

So it was a good weekend. I watched the Princess Bride again, which I haven’t done in years, and decided that this is my new litmus test for whether or not I will befriend new people. If you do not like that movie, I shall wish a pox on you. If you love it, we are most likely soul mates and you will have my undying love. I once said to a friend “Never get involved in a land war in Asia!” and she looked at me like I had two heads. We no longer speak. My brother and I have that entire movie memorized and spent the rest of the night exchanging texts with various bits of dialogue that have become lodged in our gray matter over our lifetimes. It’s safe to say that we are nerds. But we are nerds that know the three secrets of the Fire Swamp…can you say the same?

Potty break!

Does anyone else besides me wonder when it is that Jack Bauer has an opportunity to take a pee? I realize that when one is in the middle of saving the world, one's bladder is not a high priority, but holding it for 24 hours just seems like an infection waiting to happen. Brian Grazer needs to work that into the story line somehow. I'll write him a letter...I'm sure he'll get right on it.

Fuchsia is a fun word to say

I was sitting in a coffee shop the other day, trying to enjoy a few moments of peace. I take time to myself very seriously, if only because I don’t get much of it, and so try to look as dour and cruel as possible when I’m out in a public place. It seems like an odd strategy to avoid human interaction, I know, but it works most of the time. On this day, however, it did not. I was reading a book on a health issue that I’ve been battling, and despite my best efforts to keep the spine tactfully hidden, I must have flashed the cover at some point because this woman, THIS WOMAN WHO I CANNOT EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE, came waltzing up to me and said “OH! ARE YOU SUFFERING FROM THAT PARTICULAR MALADY?”

Besides the fact that that is a terribly impertinent and personal question, I first have to address the fact that she was wearing head to toe fuchsia. FUCHSIA. Let’s start with the base layer, shall we? It was a jumpsuit. A JUMPSUIT. It was splendid, covered in gold, shiny buttons with a gold, shiny belt that gave off the impression that her lunch was trying to make a break for it as the buttons below the belt were bulging with such vigor, I was worried for the safety of my face should one of them give way. Also, the camel toe. SWEET MARY. It was right at my eye level which made me feel stabby. The jumpsuit was covered with a leather coat of the same hue with some business on the lapel that looked as though a parrot had committed suicide on her person and, rather than cleaning it off, she went “Meh, the colors are nice!” And indeed, anything that was a departure from the fuchsia was welcome, however gruesome it may have ended up looking. The ensemble was finished with a pair of boots (fuchsia, need you ask?) that came up to her knee and were giving her an extra four inches of height. Somewhere, a stripper is looking for her fancy shoes.

While I admired her dedication to color, the overall effect was one of her being a commemorative mosaic made out of old Lee Press On nails. Which is to say it was a whole lot of look and I instinctively reached for my bottle of Advil as my head was in danger of exploding, though a shot of tequila would have been a more suitable choice.

While I drank her in, she proceeded to go on and ON about how she! too! had suffered! from the very same thing I was reading up on, back in the 60’s (which is presumably when she bought and first wore her getup) and had been able to overcome! and live! and not have to be on terrifying amounts of medication! (and yes, she spoke with such gusto that the exclamation points are allowable. Also, I think her belt was somewhat cutting off her air supply). Regardless, I didn’t have to say much as she just wanted to get her spiel out, which was nice since I’m not in the business of divulging my medical history to strangers. She then asked if I wanted her to tell me about what her doctors had recommended for her when she! was! suffering!

I was trying to figure out how to kindly explain that I had a feeling medicine had advanced since then. In the 60’s, what? They could apply a poultice, and perhaps shake a rain stick at you and hope for the best? Recommend that you not shvitz and smoke some high quality grass? I was spared, however, as her cell phone rang. She had to take the call, and said “Well, best of luck to you!” and went click-click-clicking on her fuchsia way. I felt the immediate need to lie down. Or have a sandwich.

I went back to my book after looking around to see if someone else had seen this outlandish display of crazy. The man next to me caught my eye and leaned over with this little nugget: “Whatever your health issue, I would strongly suggest not taking advice from someone who wears a jumpsuit out in public without irony.”

Agreed. Someone write that down.

Wedding Day

Good morning internet! I like starting off the week on a light note...well, not really. The following is a story I started working on a while back. It's now turned into a 3,000 word essay, but here are the wee, few paragraphs that it started off as before it became a monstrous piece that has taken over my days and nights for the past month. The evolution of a story, for your reading pleasure. You might want to pop a Prozac first.
.........................

She stared at the floral patterned curtains that billowed into the room where she sat. The loneliness was surprising, overwhelming despite the crowded room. Detached, she watched her sisters and friends move about, their words moving slowly towards her as though through a thick morass. No one saw the doubt in her eyes, her disguise having been completed in years past when she talked herself into loving her waiting groom. That fact had been buried so deeply into her dreams long ago that it had shocked her to note in the weeks before her wedding that she was not in love with the man she was about to meet at the end of the aisle.

She was vexed by her indecision but it was strangely comforting to think twice about something for once in her life, her certainty about everything having become a burden she wished to shed. She was the sweet one, the strong one, always loved by someone, though she sometimes wondered if she had really ever known what it was to return that sentiment.

He had taken all that she could give and she had eventually bent under the weight of his love, molding first to one thing and then another until she wasn’t sure where the borders were between them anymore. The seamlessness worried her - she wasn’t sure she existed, the plot of their lives having been simplified into a story that was no longer hers. She had wanted to stray from the screenplay, but improvisation had never been her strong suit. In the last few weeks, she had started collecting the facts, putting her thoughts into neat rows in her mind, the end result being that she wondered how long she could keep this going without something fracturing beyond repair.

The night before the wedding, she had considered passing her exit on the freeway and continuing on, to any place that wasn’t here. But at the last minute, with his face looming before her, she had veered off of the road and toward home. At a stoplight, the bitter taste of everything rose up in her mouth and she screamed at the top of her lungs, a long, guttural howl that left her gasping for air as she gripped the steering wheel. She sat, shocked, as the light turned green and cars steered angrily around her. She pulled over to the side of the road as the tears came, flowing freely down her face as her body shook. She was afraid of breaking – she used to be one of the ones who didn’t weep. She felt split wide open, as though everything she had held so dear was finally spilling out of her after years of neglect. The subtle ways in which she had disappeared surfaced, demanding her attention.

And now, as the room emptied and she sat with only the floral drapes for company, she wondered if she had the strength to follow this trajectory, if she could somehow make this mess whole. Would she get so numb over time that she wouldn’t mind? Could she look into his eyes and recognize what was good? Would that be enough?

The door opened and her father peered in, his eyebrows traveling up his forehead as he saw his daughters distraught face. He came over and sat next to her, covering her hand with his own. Tears fell from her cheeks leaving distinct marks that bled like ink across the silk of her dress.

“You know,” he said slowly, measuring his words, “you don’t have to do this. It will be alright if you want to leave right now.”

“What?” she said, startled.

“Take a minute and think about it,” he continued. “I’ll wait outside.” He patted her knee and left, the door shutting silently behind him.

She didn’t know why, but somehow that permission to flee pushed her in the other direction. Years later, when forever was over and she left, finally brave enough to want something different, her fathers reaction was simply, “Good. Now you’ll be happy.”

But here, now, the self-betrayal with which she had become so intimate offered the easier path. All she had become accustomed to was on the other side of that door. She had become so used to walking backwards, to being less, to letting someone else direct her, that the other option was too daunting.

Maybe in the morning, things won’t be quite as bad as they seem, she thought.

And with that, she gathered up her dress in one hand, stood up and walked out the door.