Since moving into the Casa, the expectation from both of our families has been made pretty clear- “You two are planning to get engaged, right?”
Well DUH. Practical reasons dictated that we do one or the other when we did, and the house was too amazing to pass up. It was a huge step, and a legal commitment to each other almost as concrete as a marriage certificate. As one friend lovingly put it, “You guys are officially off the market.”
As my birthday comes rolling around again (GAH!GAHGAHGAHGAHOLDGAH!) (Ok, I’m better.)(GAH!), I’m finding my thoughts consitently drawn to the topic of mawwiage. Er, Marriage.
I was never really the little girl who played at marriage. I haven’t been thinking of my wedding day since I was 8, and don’t have the faintest idea of what I want for the most basic things. I always figured that my wedding would be a personal thing, and everything about it would depend on the person that I was marrying.
My last boyfriend would have expected something grand and ostentatious. I probably could have expected a ridiculous diamond (He shared a last name with a famous jeweler, after all, and felt entitled to all of the finer things.) and a proposal while on a surprise romantic weekend getaway somewhere. Whether this was a result of his Long Island upbringing, or just a conscious choice that he made, he felt entitled to “the best.”
It made him very difficult to impress.
While we mentioned marriage a few times, mostly in the giddy, early months, I didn’t want to discuss it seriously until we’d been together for a year. I was 24, not too young to be seriously considering getting engaged. But for some reason my subconscious wouldn’t entertain the thought of being engaged to him.
Thank you, Subconscious.
With Army Boy, there’s no question. My subconscious is on board, getting drunk and shouting “Put a ring on it already, boy-o!” (My subconscious is also apparently British.) I didn’t know if I’d ever feel the certainty that I’d met the one that was right for me, and when it came it wasn’t even that black and white. It was the simple truth that I couldn’t picture myself moving forward in life without him.
Now that heart, mind, and British subconscious are in agreement, I find myself thinking Weddings. With the capital W. Multiple times a day. Perhaps it’s a natural thought process that occurs as you get older. Maybe it’s my ovaries finally catching up to things and saying “HELLLLOOOO!!! WE WANTZ ATTENSHUN NAO!”
(Oh god. My Subconscious is British and my ovaries are LOLcatz. I’m so screwed.)
(Plus maybe I have some A.D.D.)
I can partially blame Danielle, as her wedding to Seth is mere months away, and she’s been in planning mode for the whole time that we’ve known each other. She shares some decisions with me, asks for opinions, and takes it a step further.
“What kind of ring do you want?”
“What do you think your colors will be?”
“What time of year do you think you’ll get married?”
Dammit if I haven’t started thinking of those things. A lot. I blame the Ovaries. And the Subconcious. And the media! Definitely the media! And Martha Stewart. All those glossy wedding magazines, sitting there all whored up with their gorgeous dresses and amazing cakes and blindingly beautiful pictures of rings… Their photography alone is like porn.
So I maaaaay have started thinking about colors. And locations. And dates. And dress styles. And maybe a ring. Oh gawd, I’m doomed. It’s my age! I can’t help it! My body is rebelling against the thought of potentially being an Old Maid!
Even though it is living with a yummy man. Silly Body. Clearly it is of the Bridget Jones variety.
To recap? Subconscious- British. Ovaries- LOLCatz. Body- Bridget Jones. Slightly more sober.
Army Boy and I casually talk about “a wedding”, even though he won’t participate too much. He’s old-fashioned like that. We both acknowledge that marriage is in the future. How distant, we’re not sure, but it’s there.
As we were driving home the other night, seeing the hints of green starting to spread across the early summer fields, I was struck with a realization.
“If we’re married, you won’t be my boyfriend anymore.”
“I’ll never have a boyfriend again.”
“I should hope not. You’ll have a husband.”
“I know. Maybe I just want to remind myself to enjoy this part of it. Even though “boyfriend” feels insufficient, since we have a house and live together… it’s more appropriate than ‘roommate.’”
“How about looooo-vvvveeerrrr?”
“Possibly that. Though your parents might not appreciate it.”
“Boyfriend it is then.”
“Boyfriend it is.”