Wedding traditions I do not like

Gideon and I have set a date for our wedding. According to the portrayal of brides on reality TV, I should already be freaking out and pushing his mom out of a moving vehicle for suggesting we change our colors. (Our colors are probably blue and silver - step off Cheri!)

My mom is helping me plan the wedding, and we haven't set much in stone yet save for the date and the venue. Of course that doesn't mean I haven't decided on the things I don't want to do. I am a pessimist at heart, after all.

These traditions include (but certainly aren't limited to!):

1. Being walked down the aisle
2. A sand ceremony/candle lighting/etc.
3. Being announced as "Mr. and Mrs. Husbandfirstname Husbandlastname"
4. A religious ceremony
5. A church ceremony
6. A long ceremony*
7. A ceremony (I'm kidding - we'll have a ceremony but it will be officiated by Sawyer from Lost. Yes he's a real person. Stop trying to bring me down!)
8. Any type of dance*
9. A large bridal/groom party*
10. Allowing other people to eat before I do*
11. Popular music*
12. Being bombarded with rice on our way out of the venue
13. Releasing doves or some other type of foul*
14. Wearing a long dress*
15. Shaving my armpits*
16. Letting Gideon choose what he wants on his groom's cake*

*These are things my mom will probably be able to talk me into doing. If you can't tell, I can be absolutely spineless.

Once we get deeper into wedding planning, I'll try to note as much about the process as possible so I can share it here. That includes taking photos of the people I throw drinks at and/or slap across the face during my bridezilla moments. 

One of the guys

I work closely with three men of varying ages, political leanings and backgrounds. Before we started working together, I truly didn't think there was a difference between men and women. "Oh, we're all people!" I would say, despite what When Harry Met Sally taught me.

I mean, that is mostly true; none of our conversations could ever be considered gender-specific, and we joke with each other more on a human level than anything else. In fact, most of our differences derive from individual personality quirks such as my anxiety or Scott's love of spaghetti sandwiches or David's photography pet peeves.

The only thing that's surprised me about working on a primarily male team is what they eat and how they do it. It absolutely amazes me how little they care about calories. We go to lunch together at least once a week and they almost always get something fried. I love fried food, but I end up getting a grilled chicken salad or something else that makes me want to cry hysterically in public.

Now that I've begun my wedding diet, I've realized that my coworkers really don't care what other people think of them. They especially don't think someone will judge them based on what they order for lunch. (I don't, by the way. I admire them for ordering whatever strikes their fancy that day.) Even better, they'll offer me their food if they think I'm not eating something tasty enough.

"Hey Sam, take a fry," Ty will say.

"You want a few onion rings?" David will ask.

It's awesome. If I were at lunch with women, I'm pretty sure we'd all order side salads without croutons because calories are bad. We'd eat tensely and hope to leave at least half our meal when we're done so we can get a doggy bag, which is considered a badge of honor in some circles. I can't tell you how many times I've heard one of my female friends say, "Oh, I can't finish this. I guess I'll take it home. I'm stuffed."

What I really hear is, "I ate less than you, you monster. And I didn't order cheese."

Meanwhile, I'll be staring at an empty plate wishing it were acceptable to order dessert. Oh, dessert! That's another wonderful thing about going to lunch with men. They always want to know what is available for dessert, even if they aren't hungry. They usually don't end up ordering it but would like to have cakes and pies described to them anyway.

I love that. If I'm not watching what I eat, I could gain 20 pounds in a month going to lunch with my coworkers. (That's a bit of an exaggeration - I hope.) The great thing about it is they really wouldn't care. They wouldn't care what I ate even if I ordered two entrees, an appetizer and dessert. We're there for conversation, not to judge each other based on what we stuffed our faces with at noon.

The other day David told me I'm just one of the guys. I had previously read an article about how that phrase hurts women because it means we have to meet a standard set by men, but I know that isn't how David meant it.

He meant that we're all friends regardless of our gender or how many slices of pizza we had at lunch. That's pretty sweet.

To shave or not to shave?

Winter is my second favorite season because it means shaving my legs is optional. I haven't shaved my legs since we got back from Alabama a little less than a month ago, and I have loved every moment of it.*

*Yeah, Mom, I haven't shaved my legs in almost a month and you can't do anything about it! What are you going to do? Drive up to Eureka Springs, razor in hand? Ha! (I'm kidding. Please don't do this, Mom. I love you. You're my favorite mom.)

 Last night before going to sleep, I rubbed my awful hairy leg against Gideon's manly hairy leg. He was dozing off but I wanted to tell him a joke so I shook him awake and told him there were angry men with guns trying to break down our door. (I didn't do the last part. I should have.) He finally managed to groggily say, "What?" 

"For our save the dates we should have a photo of our hairy legs next to each other and we can write, 'Shave the Date,'" I said.

"Haha."

He fell back asleep.

I jostled him awake again five minutes later, this time telling him a tornado had unexpectedly ripped through our living room. (I didn't do that either. I should have.) He asked me what I wanted - again - and I told him I had reworked the plan for our Save the Date cards.

"We can just have a photo my hairy leg with 'Shave the Date' written over it. But it'll be like a lottery ticket and you can scratch off that part to reveal the actual date!" I exclaimed.

"Haha."

He was not really laughing. 

Out of curiosity, I got out of bed and searched for "Shave the Date" to see if any other couples had come up with my brilliant plan. I found only one wedding-related result:

I'm sorry, Ken and Monica, but my idea is much better than yours. Also, that ampersand is really annoying.

My original idea still stands. 

To answer the question posed in the title of this post, of course I'm not going to shave. If staying hairy gives me material this great, I'm going to let my inner hippie run free.

One more money-saving tip from a poor person

If you're anything like me, you have had a runny nose for the better part of January. You're probably thinking you should go buy some more Kleenexes soon. Well, stop right there! Take some advice from me, circa last night around 8 p.m.

After I sneezed in the car, Gideon asked me if we needed to pick up some tissues from the store on our way home.

"No, I've got hands," I replied while haphazardly wiping my face with an ungloved palm.

(Gloves - I should definitely invest in gloves.)

I know what you're thinking. That is disgusting...ly frugal.

You are welcome.

Sorority shame

I don't remember very much from college; much of the experience feels like a blur of confusion and discomfort. I suspect I've intentionally blocked out some memories that might be too difficult to relive, but I have no proof of this. Perhaps I'll know years from now after extensive therapy. (Hopefully the kind where a therapist oscillates a pocket watch and tells me that I'll soon begin to feel very sleepy.)

The first three years of college are especially hazy. I was in a terrible sorority, dating a terrible guy and hiding all these terrible things from my family and friends back home. Still, a few pleasant memories stick out. I don't think "pleasant" is the correct word, actually. "Illuminating" would be more accurate.

The strongest of these memories took place during the fall of my junior year. I was secretary in the terrible sorority. You can imagine how exciting that position was. We were meeting in a fancy room at the library; I can't remember what the meeting was about, but I'd guess it was to vote on which of us was the most terrible person. It was probably a four-way tie.

During the meeting, we talked a bit about how our recruitment numbers were a bit off. By "a bit off," I mean essentially nonexistent. Our president wondered aloud what we were doing wrong, and instead of telling her that we were all being terrible people and should probably stop doing that, I decided it would be much better to put down the other sororities on campus. I was a terrible person.

"Firstname Lastname told my little that she doesn't even feel wanted in her sorority," I said. "What we have going for us is that we care about each other."

I was wrong, as most of us did not care about each other in the slightest.

Less than five minutes after I said that, a girl from that sorority walked in. It turns out she had been studying in the adjacent room and had heard everything we were saying. Specifically, she had heard everything I was saying. When I saw her burst through the door, I felt a pang of shame so close to real emotion I almost came out of my haze.

"Hey guys," she said. "I just want you to know I'm in the next room."

She didn't have to say what she meant. We all knew she wanted us to know she was there so that we'd stop being such blatantly terrible people. Okay, so that I'd stop being such a blatantly terrible person. Surprisingly, she didn't say it with any anger or malice. She sounded as if she felt awkward and hurt. At that point, I wasn't used to people showing that kind of emotion. All the emotion I experienced manifested in the form of screaming and insults; sometimes, I was the person delivering these insults.

(Ed. Note: I am referring to my relationship when I describe the screaming. The girls in my sorority weren't abusive people; they just didn't understand what I was going through and liked to gossip. They are human and probably responded to my situation the best they could.)

To make matters worse, I really liked this girl. We worked together on the school paper, and she had always been so nice to me. Until she barged into that room where I was meeting with my terrible sorority sisters, I thought her kindness was fake. That was a reflection on me, not her. I allowed all the negativity surrounding me to consume me to the point that I regurgitated it back and assumed everyone else would do the same.

But there she stood, in a pink letter shirt emblazoned with cat fabric, asking me to stop denigrating a group she was part of because it hurt her feelings. All at once, I realized I was in the wrong. I felt like crying. She went back into the room, and we went back to talking. When our meeting ended, I walked downstairs with my sorority sisters and then doubled back to the room we had met in.

I knocked on the door of the study room, feeling happy and nervous that she was still there.

"About what I said in there," I muttered. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," she said.

"Yes, I do. I was trying to build my sorority up by tearing yours down, and that's not right. I'm really sorry," I said.

To my surprise, she told me she forgave me. I expected her to show me the door or halfheartedly accept my apology. I didn't expect her to listen to me. I didn't expect her to treat me with even more kindness in the weeks, months and years following that experience. I certainly didn't expect her to invite me to her wedding earlier this year.

But she did, and I went. I went as a different person - a better person, I hope.

While she and I were never super close friends, she showed me how much honesty and kindness can change the way people respond to you. I'm forever grateful for that. Because she gave me the benefit of the doubt, I began preparing myself to do the same for others. Her kindness also helped me realize that I didn't want to be in the sorority I was in, and leaving that sorority helped me realize I didn't want to be in the relationship I was in. (It's also seriously cut down on the people I'm inviting to my wedding.)

It kick-started the life I live today, and she probably has no idea about it. After all, she was just being herself.

I'm so glad she was.

Attempts at dieting, part 10,000

Because I'm getting married some time in the next year, I've started buckling down on dieting again. I didn't write about it much last year but I definitely fell off the wagon in the fall and stayed there throughout December. I really enjoyed it, too.

Sadly, my days of eating sugary snacks and huge breakfasts are over. I have started an incredibly painful diet where I don't eat grain or much processed food. For the past two days, I've had two boiled eggs for breakfast and a huge trail mix for lunch. Gideon created the trail mix; it's basically a mixture of peanuts, dried cranberries and cashews.  It's surprisingly filling but I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss my burger and fries.

(Pizza too. I miss pizza a lot.)

A woman in my office recommended that I cut out grain after she and her father did it. She explained that her father was on several diabetes medications and now takes only one because of the diet. If I weren't trying to look super hot in a wedding dress, the health benefits alone would have convinced me to try this.

I'm on Day Three and things are going well. That said, I'm well aware of how susceptible I am to yo-yo dieting. I've been trying and failing to diet since I was 13. During college, I stopped dieting completely and let myself go. It was not good. I've lost maybe 60 pounds over the past three years, including last year's impressive six-month streak.

From January to June last year, I stuck to a strict diet of 1,300 calories a day. July came around and I thought, "Who needs dieting? I'll just stay this size now!" It will surprise no one that I did not stay that size. Now that I have a wedding to look forward to, I've got some solid motivation and a short time to execute it.

I'm not sure if it will result in anything other than me crying every night, but I'll try it anyway.

I am sure that pizza is delicious and I miss it very much. RIP pizza. We had a good run. I'll see you next year.

He Said She Said: The Proposal

So Gideon and I are getting married.

I'm super excited about it, but I'm almost more excited about finally having topics for "He Said She Said." I started this segment over a year ago and haven't really been able to do much with it, save for the Christmas movie reviews we wrote last month. The idea is that Gideon and I will both narrate an event we experienced together to provide differing perspectives on it. 

I think the story of how he proposed to me is a good way to resurrect it and an even better way to kick off my blogging in 2016. While we were both there when it happened, I'll admit I was nervously drinking wine and probably can't remember everything the way it really happened. Forgive me - blame the Kendall Jackson. 

She Said

Gideon and I started New Year’s Eve by sleeping in, which is one of my favorite things to do. After forcing ourselves out of bed, we attempted a workout at the gym and returned to our room to get ready for lunch. He said he wanted to take me to lunch someplace fancy. When I suggested Hooters, he said he wasn’t sure that was the best place for us to go. I don’t understand why; I think going to Hooters would be a great part of this story. 

Instead of eating wings served by scantily clad women, we went to a steakhouse. He had oysters and I had a steak. It was all delicious. Then, because we weren’t stuffed enough, we went to Publix to purchase items for a beachside picnic slated for later that night. We got goat cheese, gouda, spicy mustard, strawberry jam, French bread, yogurt-covered raisins and a bottle of wine. 

It was only 4 p.m. when we got back to the condo, so we played a game of Monopoly with Gideon’s family. I won. I feel that’s integral to this story. It was finally an hour before midnight, and we walked to the beach. Of course it was raining. We sat up our picnic on the covered poolside area instead and watched the rain as we ate.

Around 11:30 p.m., we had both finished the bottle of wine we brought. To say we were intoxicated would be an understatement. I was hiding under my shawl from the sound of fireworks - yes, some stupid kids actually thought it would be smart to set off fireworks in the rain - when Gideon nervously stood up and started bouncing up and down.

“I really like you and I hope you like me too,” he said. “I want to give you something.”

He pulled the ring box out of his pocket. Since I am a charming drunk, I laughed at him and said no. I took the ring and put it on. Gideon explained that my nana donated the stones in the ring, and I began sobbing. He was alarmed and asked me if I was okay. I blubbered something about just being happy. 

It wasn’t really what he had planned, but I don’t think it could’ve been more perfect. Well, if Lost had been playing in the background it might have been. We’ll just do that at the wedding.

He Said
When I think and plan something, it becomes an all-encompassing juggernaut thought. Blame my childhood OCD for that. Ever since I started a savings account with Sam in the picture, my thoughts were bending towards this night. By late August, I had a clear idea on my budget and had chosen New Year's Eve for the question. I had strafed Sam's snooping, conspired with her mother, whispered with her Nana and plotted with the cat. He didn't help much at all.

The day bloomed. Samantha and I were lazily drifting through the morning. I was half-sleeping, because I was already living the evening. We slept through our gym time --  a fine trade in my opinion. I was napping and mapping out a speech. Would she like something literary? A letter? Poetry? I had been feverishly mulling this for the better part of  a year. While my heart would be melted by a recitation of the Lay of Beren and Luthien, I elected against that. Brutal honesty and blunt emotion plays better with the lady. Oh, we're having lunch now? It's almost time!

We ate, then shopped for our New Year's picnic. I needed something light that passed for sumptuous, something that wouldn't make us ill when taken with wine. A variety of cheese and jams with a baguette did the trick. Since I had nine hours to obsessively reiterate, I bought an extra bottle of wine. Nerves. Lots of nerves.

Suddenly, it happened. It was 10:59 p.m. Dec. 31, 2015 in Orange Beach, Ala. (26350 Perdido Beach Boulevard, if you're interested) We were riding the elevator down to the beach. The ring was far too large to be hidden in my pocket. Everything was bent around it. I cautiously set our picnic spread, wary of dropping the object of my attention.

Samantha was happy. She was wrapped in beach towels to ward off the sudden cold. Hooligans were whooping it up on the beach. It was loud. Coppola's vineyard made it significantly warmer. I was happy. She was smiling. I couldn't stop.

It was 11:48 p.m. Dec. 31, 2015 in Orange Beach, Ala. I stopped waiting. She grabbed me and didn't let go.

Also, PICTURES!