I’m sitting quietly in the living room, watching Food Network and waiting for my husband to return home with cheese, crackers, and shrimp — a lovely dinner to pair with the gigantic bottle of champagne his parents gave us for Wedding #2. We re-tied the knot earlier today on what was supposed to be our wedding date (but you all know how that turned out), and now I understand why people elope. Even our tiny little 30-person shindig would have sent me through the roof if not for the emotional and financial support of my family and my very best friend in the entire world, who stayed with me for a week before the big day to help get things done.
The wedding itself was about seven minutes long and was very simple and lovely. There were a few tears and a few laughs — like when Beloved jumped the gun and said “I do” before he was supposed to — followed by lots of pictures and a great lunch at a local restaurant. Afterward I toured my family around town and the campus, and then we all took turns Wii bowling, thanks to another great friend who decided we needed another excuse never to do anything except sit in front of the TV.
It was quite hectic having everyone piled into our one-bathroom apartment — the quiet now is delicious, by the way — but it was so much fun to see everyone and know that I am able to be a successful hostess even if I feel as though my head could come off at any minute. My nieces got along with my nephew wonderfully, my father finally got to see where I’ve been hanging out for the past three years, and our families met and mingled over subs and beers. The weather, naturally, was Hades-esque, but bottled water was never in short supply and we spent lots of time darting between air-conditioned buildings as we toured the college on the hill.
What I kept coming back to over the entire weekend is how lucky I really am to have two families who love me and who support our marriage and lives together, and how lost I would be without my best friend. Everything classy and beautiful about this weekend was owed to her, as is the fact that I didn’t lose my cool at every turn. There were very few bumps in the road, everyone seemed to have a great time, and we finally feel as if we’re actually married even though we’ve been wearing these rings for nearly two months now.
I really think this is going to be one fantastic life.
It’s been a few days since I got my test results back from State Farm and found out that, while I’m in no danger of keeling over immediately, there are a handful of tentative red flags couched in the list of numbers and ratios. While my blood pressure remains calm and cool thanks to my mother’s genes, my cholesterol and triglycerides (two words I never thought I’d care about at 27) are high enough to give me pause. I took a long walk on Sunday to think about it and decided that even though I’m not overly concerned with what the numbers on the scale say, I owe it to myself to take care of the ol’ heart and circulatory system.
Today is Day Three of my calorie-counting, nightly-walking existence, and I am ravenous. I tried to ward off the hunger pangs with two clementines (50 calories) and a string cheese (80 calories) but to no avail, so I nuked some leftover stuffed peppers from last night. I have a feeling they’re not going to satiate the beast within for long. I hate having to count up everything I eat each day, but it seems like the only way to force myself to quit nibbling on everything in sight. When I’m 50 and have arteries that look like a 20-year-old’s, I’m sure I’ll thank myself — but for now, I’m going to skulk off to the kitchen and find something else to eat.
Today I received my first piece of mail with my new last name misspelled. Now that I’ve felt the pain of generations of Walstons, I am officially part of the family. They spelled it “Waltson,” which at least contains all the letters in “Walston,” but according to Beloved I can expect to hear “Watson,” “Walton,” and perhaps the occasional “Wilson” for the next several decades.
At least the error is not nearly as bad as “Farnk Admas,” which, according to family lore, is how a letter to my paternal grandfather Frank was once addressed. Also, I once received a credit card application addressed to “Rachet.” Now spill — what’s the worst mutilation of your name you’ve ever experienced?
I have a love/hate relationship with my weight. It’s been this way ever since an ex-boyfriend informed me I was “letting myself go” five years and probably 30 pounds ago. Every now and then I get a bee in my bonnet about my jiggly bits and stomp around for a while vowing never to eat chocolate again, but everyone can rest assured that it’s a lot of sound and fury signifying absolutely nothing because I always come crawling back to Ben & Jerry.
The latest episode was quite recent, after I was informed by my insurance agent that my life insurance premiums would be $6 higher than anticipated because there was something in my bloodwork that State Farm didn’t like. According to my agent, this is no big deal — practically no one gets the lowest rate — but it spawned a mini-panic. I haven’t gotten the lab results back yet, so I’m left to wonder what exactly is not-so-great about my health … and naturally I came to the conclusion that I must be too big to be healthy. It didn’t help that I looked up my Body Mass Index and it told me I’m a few cheesecakes away from obesity (what?), so I retreated into my cave of bodily loathing and started poking at my rolls in the mirror.
That night at O’Charley’s, I ordered the salmon and steamed broccoli. I was not happy about this, but I felt as though I needed to start caring about my size and shape. I eyed the other patrons, gauging the size of my backside versus theirs and what was on my plate versus what was on theirs. The flab funk lasted until lunch the next day, when I sat down with a friend over beer and nachos (much better) and discussed the fact that overweight people can be healthy just as skinny people can be unhealthy. It’s all about balance, about ignoring the “ideal weight,” and — for me, anyway — about indulging within reason, because a salmon-eating DailyNewsie is not a happy DailyNewsie.
So I weigh more than I should. I’ve been lucky in that I’ve at least gained weight proportionally. I know in the back of my mind that I don’t look bad, and I’m careful about portion sizes and sodium content in what I eat, but every now and then I convince myself I need to diet and exercise. I’m not one of those people who is motivated by weight loss, though — I like food and the couch too much, and laziness always wins over loss of poundage. I have the utmost respect for those who can do it, but at the same time I realize that I can’t be too mad at my rolls if I’m the one who is unwilling to do anything about it.
I think I need a hobby, one that’s good for me but doesn’t feel like exercise. What do y’all do to stay active?
Friends, I am in an absolutely putrid mood today. If people had their own personal weather systems, right now I would be drenched by driving rain from a little black cloud hovering over my head. Don’t ask me why I’m so cranky, because I don’t know — I just am. Which begs the question, what do you do to get yourself out of a bad mood?
It is endlessly interesting to me that, no matter how much I complain about being too busy and too stressed out, I am simply not happy unless I’m being pulled in 18 directions at once. To wit: This semester I have two part-time jobs (I cut my hours at the chiropractor’s office a few weeks earlier than planned) that total 40 hours a week, a full load of graduate classes, a side job (five to 10 hours/week) on the mayor’s campaign, and the first half of my thesis, yet when I got a phone call today from a local nonprofit group asking to work on their newsletter, I jumped at the chance. This group was one of my favorites while I was a reporter, and I’m happy to be able to help — but one wonders whether my head is going to separate from the rest of my body come election time, when things reach a fever pitch. I doubt it, but one never knows.
It will be a year next month since I left the newspaper, and I am constantly surprised that people remember me. A friend and I bumped into the head of the local utility company the other day and he called me by name, which shocked me a little. “Of course I remember his name,” I said to my friend. “That’s because I think he’s important.” He just smiled and let me come to the obvious conclusion, which made me feel all warm inside. It’s nice to have friends — especially ones in high places — and it’s nice to know that people didn’t just hang out with me because I could get them good press.
The mayor is having a fundraiser tomorrow night, so Beloved and I are stopping by on our way out of town. I squeezed into my little black dress tonight just to prove that I still could, and am very much anticipating the opportunity to rub elbows with some old friends, show my support for the mayor, and give my leopard-print stilettos a workout. Then Friday night is my bachelorette party in PA (I hear tell my attire will be accented by a giant veil), followed by a family reception on Saturday. I haven’t seen my best friend or my family since Memorial Day and it’s been several years since I’ve seen most of the people who are coming to the reception, so I’m pretty excited about the whole deal.
You know, even with work stresses, the hectic schedule, and the near-constant missing of my family and best friend, I really am so, so lucky. Especially since the biggest hat of all — the wife hat — is made so much easier for the wearing by the fact that my husband is an easygoing, supportive man who doesn’t mind if I miss dinner, hog the laptop, or throw a fit because I’m stressed out, and that makes for a good foundation for everything else.
Today was my last class of the summer, which was pretty awesome if you ask me. Just before Dr. C. let us leave the sweltering classroom (apparently they shut off the AC on the weekends, which of course is when we have class), he asked us to pair up, close our eyes, and imagine our perfect Friday ten years from now. Research has shown, apparently, that saying things like this aloud makes it more likely it will happen. (By that logic, then, blogging should do the same.)
My partner wanted a wife and kids, a house on the beach, and a flexible schedule in management that would allow him to enjoy all those things. I smiled; he’s exactly the kind of easygoing and funloving guy who would fit right into a position like that. He looked at me expectantly and I closed my eyes, imagining the click of my heels on marble tile as I reported for work at a Capitol building, dressed in a smart business suit and carrying a matching attache case. Diet Pepsi in hand, I stroll to the kitchen to begin brewing a cup of coffee for my boss — the governor, Speaker of the House, mayor, President. I am 37, I am a press secretary, and I am fabulous.
He (or she) is happy to see me slip into the office, balancing the coffee and a stack of morning newspapers as we prepare to begin our day. A quick review of the day’s news, some return phone calls to reporters, lunch with governmental bigwigs and an afternoon press conference, then back out the grand doors I go, headed for a downtown loft apartment with hardwood floors and minimalist furniture. Dinner is Thai takeout on the coffee table with my beloved while the dogs watch from a respectful distance, perking their ears every time my BlackBerry buzzes with a new missive.
To be truthful, I’m not really sure where this all came from, but it’s what showed up when I closed my eyes. Now I just have to make it happen within the next 10 years. I was slightly annoyed at this exercise when Dr. C. suggested it — why won’t you just let us leave already? — but, I have to admit, it’s pretty cool to think about.
My routine trip to the mailbox was enlivened by the sound of a car horn tooting a very General-Lee-esque bar of “Dixie.” Also, one of my favorite bars has “Dueling Banjos” on the jukebox (just ask The Best Friend), and during our last trip to the Olive Garden the waiter ensured us that he would get an erroneous charge “tooken” off our bill.
The good news is, I got the GA position I was salivating over, complete with a letter offering the tantalizing prospect of a partial tuition waiver. I’m quite excited about it, but today has been so gray that I’ll wait until later to celebrate.
I found out at lunch today that a former source and a good friend (we’ll call her A) has cancer. Again. She battled breast cancer several years ago and won, but this time it’s attacked her spine. The doctors say there isn’t a thing they can do for her, so now it’s time to wait and be comfortable. And suddenly I am clutching the telephone in my cousin’s office nine years ago, hearing my father on the other end tell me my mother had a brain tumor and feeling a rising wave of numbness in the pit of my stomach. This time, the numbness subsided much more quickly and anger took its place. Here is a woman who’s already been through hell and back, who faces every day with a smile and a joke, who makes light of the debilitating illness she beat into submission. And now it’s come back to take her life when millions of people across this earth are far more deserving of such a fate.
“It’s not fair,” I mumbled over and over at the Mexican restaurant today, toying with my nachos but not eating any. A friend sat across the table from me, nodding silently. The diagnosis was handed down only a few days ago, apparently, so I called A’s best friend just in case A’s usually uncrushable spirit was dampened by this latest blow. If she doesn’t call back tomorrow, I’m calling A at home to see if she wants some dinner, some reading material, some company while she waits for the inevitable. And I know the kicker will be that A will welcome me into her home with open arms and a happy heart while I fight back tears and this incredible, bitter anger that’s been boiling under the surface for nearly a decade.
It’s times like these I wonder if there really is someone controlling the universe … and, if so, why is He or She asleep at the wheel? It used to be a comfort that there was some sort of higher purpose that my mother’s death fulfilled, but too many years of missing her have dashed that hope to shreds. In a world that so desperately needs more people like A and like my mother, why do good people keep dying?
