Come grow old with me, the best is yet to be

I'm engaged! *confetti*

A friend I've had since high school has always been unfailingly enthusiastic about his life. He's had more jobs than I can count and took far longer than normal to finish college, but he always threw himself 100% into whatever venture he was embarking upon. He would speak so convincingly about each and every new life path (each with its own 5-year plan) that despite the fact this life plan was different every 4 months, I believed him every single time that This Was It and it was going to be Awesome.

That sort of optimism is alien to me. I hold on to doubts and fears and when I look five years into the future for any given thing, I see a thousand paths of disaster lying in wait. I try to be optimistic that, well, my life's been pretty good so far, so the chance of a flash flood washing away all my belongings and ruining my newly painted apartment walls with mold is really quite slim; yet I still have that little voice going "yeah...but it could happen, so don't get too excited".

Being with The Boy is my greatest example of that. To be fair to my psyche, my tendency to doubt our future had concrete evidence (see: him breaking up with me for a month in 2010), but ever since we got back together things were wonderful. Amazing. Completely different than the previous five years. I could tell he was just as invested in our relationship as I was and I would tell myself that is was real, this was It, finally. I was 99% sure of us, and our 5-year (10-year, 80-year) plan. 99% is easy to round up to 100%, and it was easy to tell myself that the part of me that was holding on to the 1% possibility that something could go awry was just being silly and pragmatic, that I was only doubting because it'd be illogical not to. Because honestly, who's 100% sure of anything? Fools, that's who. Right?

But then it snowed.

The first snowfall of the season finally came, and The Boy was uncharacteristically eager about going downtown Naperville to walk around and look at the snow. It snowed, and with just the soft rustling of snowflakes filling my ears, he asked me if I wanted to marry him.

I unromantically asked him if he was sure, and his eager/terrified nodding persuaded me that he had, in fact, thought this through and he was, indeed, sure. We put a simple and beautiful ring on the fourth finger of my left hand, hugged really tight, and smiled like goons. While the world around us was freezing over and turning a beautiful and brilliant shade of white, the 1% left inside me melted away. And let me tell you, 100% is absolutely nothing like 99%.

Don't get me wrong, I know things could still go wrong. People change, life happens, and the possibility of Forever is not a guarantee. But right now, in this moment of time and this stage of our life, I'm 100% sure that this is what we both want, that we're 100% in this together, and 100% going to promise to try our best to make it happen.

Can Finally Rename The Bookmarks Folder From "Unmentionables" to "Marriage Stuff",
Cathi

"Some of them were so busy worrying about cracking glass ceilings that they never asked what the air was like up there."

I'm starting to feel older. Already when people ask me how old I am I tell them "26", even though that milestone is still two months away. Perhaps it's living alone, perhaps it's the serious conversations with my bosses about how to turn my job into my career, perhaps it's all the research about retirement funds I've been doing, perhaps it's having an immediate family member not immediately available to me, and perhaps it's the seriousness and marvelousness of my relationship with The Boy beginning to make sense in my brain.

I feel like I've matured rather significantly over the last six months or so, and I think it's because for the first time I'm actually taking my future seriously. When I graduated from NCC I had all the hope in the world (and none of the ambition) that things would fall into place. I was young, I had time. I've since seen that success takes work, and that I'm finally not-as-content enough to begin to put in that work. There have been a lot of late nights spent pondering what my values are, what I want for myself, and readjusting the image I've had for my life that has always been in the back of my mind.

It was, perhaps, growing up with my primary caretaker being my mom that led me to believe that I, too, would be an independent lady who had my own house and my own car(s) and my own life. My mom owns a toolbox and she knows how to wield the objects therein. She would go to work in the mornings, cook us dinner at night, drive us to gymnastics and piano lessons, and read stories to us before bed. She would go line dancing with friends sometimes. Whenever something broke in the house she'd either fix it herself or knew exactly who to call. My mom always had a plan and an answer for everything; at least it seemed to be so when I was a kid. My mom did whatever was best for herself and for us. This is the model of grownup life that I have fashioned in my mind.

It was also, perhaps, being exposed to the "Girl Power!" movement and the slow scraping away of the veneer of social expectations that made me feel obligated to be a strong, independent lady. The glass ceiling still exists, wage disparities are still significant, social expectations are still wildly privileged toward men and detrimental to women and as a socially conscious young woman I feel this overwhelming burden to contribute to the de-stigmatization of women in the public eye. On the one hand, I've largely succeeded. I went to college and I graduated from college with a degree and without a husband. I pay my own bills, people respect me for my intelligence and wit, I am the sole leaseholder on my apartment, and I can't cook worth a damn.

I never assumed I would get married, but I also never assumed I wouldn't. I mostly just figured that if it happened, I wouldn't let it interfere with my life. Obviously, I never spent much time thinking about it at all. The Boy and I are tiptoeing our way toward that goal, and now that it's more of a real possibility than ever before I'm finding myself reaching with one hand for a paper bag to breathe deeply into and with the other for something solid to keep me mentally upright. I love him more than I thought I was capable of and I couldn't be prouder of him, his accomplishments, and to have him by my side. He has become family and I can easily glimpse snippets of Future Us (most notably 90 year-old Us sitting at the kitchen table in the lake house he built as he asks me to help with the Sunday crossword and I snap at him that, for the zillionth time, I'm awful at those things. Pass the World Politics section, please), but I'm very suddenly unsure of what this means for myself and my bright, shiny, independent lady life.

Believe it or not, his life and his goals are important to me, and it very viscerally feels as if I'm betraying my gender by caring about someone other than myself, most especially a man. To compromise is to have a healthy relationship, but to compromise on even the smallest details of my Grand Life Design feels traitorous. I had this awful, panicky moment several months ago when he was pondering pursuing a job in Kentucky and the mere thought of going with him made me feel like a monumental failure. After everything my mom sacrificed, and how hard she worked, and how far society has come, and after all the expectations of greatness my loved ones have of me, I was going to bow down to the patriarchy and uproot myself and everything I know for a man.

I'm slowly piecing together what happiness looks like for me, but it's a much more difficult process than I originally thought. So many messages are directed toward young girls and young women these days that I'm not sure we even notice the impact they are having until the worst possible moment. I'm proud to feel so empowered, grateful to be aware enough to know I have options and choices and to know that I could, if I wanted to, shoot for the moon and write my name among the stars. I do wonder if a balance is needed when it comes to empowering girls, though. When being told I could be anything I wanted to be I'm not sure the best way to demonstrate that was with a big red X through the image of a wife wearing an apron vacuuming the living room. Someone has to vacuum. Especially when you live alone and the entire place is carpeted.

Navigating adulthood is hard, you guys. I'm enjoying my fully developed brain and stabilized body chemistry but the weight of the world has become quite the burden.

The Marrying Kind

I think this entry is going to end up being a lot of things.

Wedding planning is daunting, and I say this as a mere Wedding Recruit (aka Maid of Honor) for the Poncho Wedding Extravaganza. Daunting can be both good and bad, it just means there's a lot of choices, a lot of information, and a TON of distractions. Fortunately for me, I can immerse myself into this project and allow myself to be distracted by the shiny things, the pretty things, and the hilarious antics of anonymous brides without having to worry about money, deadlines, or letting anyone down.

It has raised a lot of questions in my own mind regarding my own relationship. I've tried very hard over the last five years not to compare my relationship to Poncho's but I'm willing to admit that it's difficult not to. We started dating our dudes more or less within a week of each other back in 2006 and being the same age and going through the same timeline with undergrad and all, well, I don't think you can fault me too much for occasionally making mental Venn Diagrams. I always knew it was a bad idea to do this, if only because comparing your life to others' is never an advised activity. Poncho and I go about things very differently; relationships beings the crowning jewel of our differences. We expect different things from our partners, our communications skills are on opposite ends of the spectrum, and as time went on our academic and professional life paths diverged. Trying to compare my relationship with hers is like trying to compare cats and dogs. Everyone has their preferences and opinions, but at the end of the day they're entirely different animals.

Not that this hasn't stopped me from watching her get engaged and begin wedding planning with a tinge of envy and wondering to myself "why isn't this me?" The Boy and I have been together for five years now, we're happier together than we've ever been, we've occasionally discussed our wedding (ranging from the less-serious "let's bake brownies instead of a cake and have people vote whose they like best" to the much more serious "you know I refuse to convert to Catholicism, right?") and we quite often speculate about a life together. So, why aren't we a mirror image of my best friend and her boyfriend? Well, a hundred reasons, but none more important that "Because. That's why."

I mean let's be honest, I'm not ready to be a wife. Not yet. This doesn't mean that we're not in love, or that our relationship sucks or that I'm experiencing doubts or some need to go sow my wild oats (or whatever it is single people say when celebrating their singleness). It just means I have some personal goals I need to accomplish before I can even realistically entertain the thought. This is something that I've had to remind myself what feels like a thousand times in the last month, and something I will have to continue to remind myself as the excitement for Poncho Wedding Extravaganza ramps up. I'm happy with The Boy. I'm happy with where we are, and who we are together. We're right where we should be, doing what we need to be.

Life is not a competition. Other things are, like bartending, debate, or which sister is prettier and more successful. But not life.

You know, this could be something

You know that it all takes my breath away

There's a handful of things that I am really, truly bad at; drawing immediately comes to mind, as does the ability to have a poker-face. More abstractly, I am laughably terrible at demonstrating genuine enthusiasm, passion, or devotion to anything. I chalk this up to a massive fear of being let down--if I don't vocalize my excitement, then that somehow makes it less real, and therefore I won't be as deflated when whatever it is doesn't pass muster. Try surprising me sometime with news of something awesome (like an all-expense paid road trip to follow LBC on a nation-wide tour *cough cough*) and I guarantee that I will either seem mildly pleased, or any sort of histrionics I produce would get me kicked out of acting school.

It might come as a surprise to you, Interested Party, but I've been in a relationship for over four years. I can promise you that I'm still occasionally taken aback by the passage of time and wonder to myself how we've made it this far without breaking up at least once or growing apart. Having been 450 miles away from Fuzzy for the last year with very little scratchy-face time has given me a lot of quiet hours of reflection. While I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tell you exactly why or how we started our journey together, I have had time to find the reasons, though perhaps not the words. Words would be handy for making a convenient list that I could post on my wall for days when I get frustrated over missed calls or postponed return dates, but alas, photographic representations of his cute face have to suffice.

Last weekend I was down in Kentucky, and there was one of those moments that I just took a deep breath and vowed I would hold on to. It wasn't anything special, really. We were out to dinner, waiting an absurdly long time for what turned out to be delicious fried pickles, just enjoying our night out. We were happy, he was laughing, and we were together. I don't get to see my mountain man often these days, and having the ability to take notice of a small moment in time where we were simply coexisting and content has been a tremendous help in my not going crazy over the past year. Despite the angst it caused me, I am so ridiculously proud of that boy and what he's been doing. My life over the last few years has been made richer because of his presence, and I know that we are two very lucky people.

I love him. I miss him. I'm glad he will be home soon. I know this has all been absurdly schmoopy for this here blog, but I think it's about time that I started loosening my death grip on my feelings and letting them have visitations with other people. They need to be socialized.

1571+, 10?-, 17-, 33-,
Cathi

Sappy Wobblies

I'm glad I didn't die before I met you

I have a very busy life, Interested Party, and while it may come as a shock to you, between sporadic blog updates, bar tending, and 17-hour naps, I somehow find the time to write in an honest-to-God pen and paper journal.

Now, these genuine-journal (let's call it my GJ, for lack of a more creative acronym) entries tend to be more emo than my internet journalistic endeavors. This is mostly because I earned the privilege of omitting the "-teen" suffix from my age description and realized the World Wide Web is not the ideal place for angsty, spur-of-the-moment ramblings. Part of it, however, is when I get melancholy (I want everyone to know I spelled "melancholy" correctly on the first try), it's not always when I have immediate access to a computer, let alone one connected to the Interweb, so it's handy to have a GJ stuffed in my messenger bag when said melancholy inspires bursts of rhetorical creativity.

I've noticed a trend, however, and it's that I never feel particularly compelled to write when I'm happy. Probably because I'm too busy eating buffalo wings, frolicking in meadows, and listening to LBC during these blissful times, but also largely because I take happiness for granted.

I plan to remedy that tonight, so pardon me, Interested Party, while I indulge my Scientologistisc side and jump up and down on your e-couch for a few minutes (if you don't catch the reference, go back in time a few years and get out from the rock you've been living under. I am the Spongebob to your Patrick. You'll thank me when you're older) (and if you didn't catch thatreference, well, not everyone can be as hip as I).

An acquaintance from high school asked me a few weeks ago if I was "still with that guy", and when I responded positively, added "you should marry him. For insurance purposes." Ignoring the multiple layers "insurance purposes" could hold, I instead focused on his use of the words "that guy." That Guy is, with no hesitation, the best damn thing in my life to date (commence animated hand gestures). I've always been generally reserved, emotionally as well as in other ways, and it's sort of come as a shock to me that, after the beginning stages of "gee this is fun" progressing into a nice plateau of "gee, I could get used to this", I find myself more in awe of That Guy as each day dawns.

I find myself reluctant to use the word "love" in public, most notably because I've heard tales of married people who suddenly fall "madly in love" with an extra-marital person, and realize they never really experience "true love" before. However if "love" isn't the word to describe the warmness and fuzziness that settle into the pit of my stomach every time That Guy is mentioned, or something reminding me of him catches my notice, then I'm not entirely sure I'm emotionally equipped to deal with "true love" (and now begins the couch-mauling).

My point, now-bored and probably throw-uppy Interested Party? I'm happy. I'm happy we don't fight (something recent events with the BFF have made all the more profound [no offense, Poncho]). I'm happy we can have intelligent conversations. I'm happy that we laugh together. I'm happy that I have That Guy in my life.

Feel free to berate me Mass-Media style for my outburst. I probably deserve it. But you know what?

It's okay. I'll take it with a smile.

Bright Eyes,
Cathi

Weddings

I could write it better than you ever felt it

It's beginning to approach that time in my life where there will be a wedding every other weekend; ones that I'm invited to, at least, as opposed to me and my buddy Vince Vaughn looking for hijinks and hookups. It seems that after people graduate college, that nagging question of "now what?" often gets answered with "weddings!". With the recent engagement of our youngest cousin, Linda and I spent some time on our coffee date today discussing things like divorce, preparedness for marriage, and dress code. 

You know, the usual topics associated with the impending marriage of a relative.

This being said, I had my first legitimate "wedding plan" thought last night as I contemplated Kate's engagement. The train of thought went something like this:

-Hooray! An excuse to dress up!
-I can buy a new dress!
-Why are we expected to dress up for this sort of thing?
-What if people hate dressing up?
-For my wedding, I'm going to explicitly state that if a) this is an exciting opportunity for you to get dolled up and strut your stuff, by all means, knock yourself out, but b) if you're lamenting having to spend money on a new outfit, hate wearing collared shirts or uncomfortable shoes, then by all means, go nuts and wear pajamas and bunny slippers.
-Instead of having his/hers sides of the church, I could have dressed up/dressed down sides!

At this point, I drifted off to sleep and dreamed about an old friend getting blown up in a pick-up truck, but I think it stands as a milestone that I actually gave a serious moment's thought to an albeit hypothetical, but altogether real future wedding. It's a stereotype that all girls have their weddings planned out by the age of 16, but I've somehow managed to avoid the stereotypical. When I was younger I used to think that I never wanted to get married, because if it goes wrong it's really, really bad. However, I've warmed up to the idea of pretty dresses, fancy shoes, and obligatory spa days. I'll just need to be really, really, really sure first.

10 days until Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows!
12 Tage bis Miranda kommt nach Hause!
13 days until Miranda is 21!
14 days until Jaci is 21!
15 days until Warped Tour!
36 days until GenCon!
61 days until college: the final chapter!

Like Rats,
Cathi

one year

I've got a history of wearing my mind on my sleeve

The heart, on the other hand, tends to stay locked in my chest pumping blood like it's its job, for better or worse. Which is good, cardiovascularly, but not so good emotionally. The depths of the allegorical heart remain a mystery to me intellectually, if not intuvitively.

Conversation has never been an easy thing for me to accomplish. While expressing ones self is one of the basic tenets of human nature, I spent more time as a child with my nose in a book and my mouth firmly shut than I did debating the finer points of Pog technique with my peers. This lack of practice with verbal expression had made even the simplest of sharing points a thing of torture. It's like having one of those rubber seals they put syringe vials covering my mouth. It physically feels like I'm trying to push through something when I think I should divulge some sort of private thought. Sometimes I'm brave enough to be able to force my way through, but afterwards the barrier always seals itself again. None of this "chipping away at the brick wall" nonsense.

One year, two days ago I, the brazen hussy that I am, made the first of a series of moves with a Mister Alex Durbin. I can't say that was The Beginning, but it was definately the start of The Beginning. Hindsight being 20/20 I feel confidant in saying that things have turned out for the best, although it doesn't feel like it's been a year. I think that's good.

L&O, Cathi

Motional

If love is a labor, I'll slave 'til the end

Emotional people have never made a lot of sense to me. And when I say "emotional" I don't really mean "cries at the drop of a hat", I sort of mean "has emotions on a regular basis". I, for one, am in more or less of a perpetual state of contentment. I veer slightly off sometimes into mild amusement, gentle frustration, or sometimes even vague giddiness, but all in all I run on a pretty even keel. Even when I was a kid I never really saw much of a point in the wide and varied expressions of my peers. I was never one for running around and screaming or throwing temper tantrums. I've never even been in a fight with a friend. Nothing ever really seems worth it.

All of this is nice, of course, when it comes to maintaining relationships and being on good terms with my parents, but when my...wherever it is that emotions come from (hypothalamus? hippocampus? Heh. Campus for hippos) decides to kick in, I get pretty confused on top of whatever emotion has cropped up. My knowledge of how to handle emotions is about as extensive as my know-how of automobile maintenence, except I know enough about cars that I was able to help my daddy change a headlight yesterday.

For example: I didn't even realize how much Alex going out of town affected me until I started crying when I got off work. The thought process went something like this.

1) I can't believe how late it is
2) I'm really hungry
3) It's sort of late, what's open?
4) Dennys!
5) I should call Durbs and make him come get food with me
6) ...
7) ...oh wait.
8) Dude this sucks.
9) I'm crying?
10) I'm crying.
11) Why am I crying? It's not that big of a deal.
12) I'm still crying
13) Sad face.

Total incompetence in the emotional department has its perks as well, such as always winning "Honey I Love You" and being able to shrug off criticism. While it might make me robot-like, I'm pretty okay with it. It keeps me from flipping out on obnoxious customers and vapid lab partners, at hte very least.

Linda Thursday!
Cathi

Punk Rock Girl

Just you and me eating fudge banana swirl. Just you and me, we'll travel round the world. Just you and me punk rock girl

When I listen to music there's a few very specific categories a song can fall into. It will a) remind me about a very specific person, b) remind me about a very specific event, c) invoke a particular feeling, d) make me wish this song reminded someone else of me, or e) evoke no particular response. Category (d) is either somewhat selfish, wishful thinking, or just plain bizarre on some level. I equate it to some girls having a song already chosen for their wedding, perhaps hoping that one day this song will remind their future fiancee of their love.

The other night at B-Dubs over a festive meal of boneless wings and chicken quesadillas, "Punk Rock Girl" by the Dead Milkmen came over the speakers. This song falls into category (d) under the more specific classification of "wishful thinking". I'm hardly punk-rock, let alone apt to commit grand theft: auto, declare a state of anarchy at a pizza joint, or lecture record store employees about their selection (unless it is lacking the illustrious LBC, of course), and yet I would always secretly hope that if the Boy heard this song, he would think me awesome enough to be comparable to the Punk Rock Girl of this song. Whilst munching upon a moderately spicy boneless wing, I was informed that "Punk Rock Girl" makes said Boy think of me.

I was giddy beyond mere words, let me tell you.

And yet, with this illumination, my sense of self-identity became just a touch more blurry as I contemplated the fact that I am reminiscent of a fictional punk-rock girl whom I feel bears no resemblance to myself. The more I find myself placed into clear descriptors (Punk Rock Girl, captain of "team nice", sudden speech phenom) the more confused I get, since I see no markings of said classifications within myself. I used to be very sure of who I was, where I stood with everything, my opinions on just about every subject, and how I presented myself to the world, but suddenly my inner self is in conflict with my (seemingly dynamic) outer self. I'm perplexed and a little lost, to be honest.

Maybe this is just the backdraft of being so busy that I haven't had a day free of obligations since September 11th. When my activities and schedule begin to define me, the less tangible aspects begin to fade in importance. Intriguing theory, CB.

We'll dress like Minnie Pearl,
Cathi

Person 9

If it felt right, would you want me to know?

9.

This will be the first and last time I ever say anything meaningful to you via the internet.

Why? Because I worry about the fact that we haven't really had a "serious" conversation. Maybe one or two, which are good starts. I don't want us to only be able to communicate (ah, girl-words) online. I know that sort of thing is hard for you, it's hard for me too, and I hope I'm not remiss in thinking I'm one of those people who you're afraid to open up to because you actually care about what they think.

That said: You are a wonderful person and you make me very, very happy. I know you think you're dull, and even though I don't think so, that's fine. I'll make you interesting while you keep me sane. We've agreed upon how we're opposites, how you're everything that I am not: quiet, creative, reasonable, healthy, diverse. I just wish we could talk. We smile at each other a lot, and we even ask "...what?" but neither of us ever respond. Maybe it's because in the moment I can't find the words to articulate how happy I am, how I feel like I don't deserve you and how goddamn lucky I am to have you sitting there, smiling back at me.

So now that you know, maybe next time you ask "what?" I'll actually tell you what I'm thinking.