Be Careful What You Wish For . . .

If I had a nickel for all the down-home wisdom imparted to me by my parents and grandmother over the years, I'd never have to work another day in my life. Of course, I suspect that the nice folks at Bank of America Home Mortgage and the utility companies might balk at receiving their monthly dues one nickel at a time, so perhaps it is best that my family merely proffered advice instead of currency. Beyond the standard warnings about stranger danger, not giving away the milk for free (side note: is it any wonder that so many young women suffer from eating disorders? Our parents literally compared us to cattle in an effort to keep us chaste!), and the lifelong fear that my face might freeze that way, my family offered up another ominous piece of wisdom, couched in the form of a surgeon general's warning label. "Be careful what you wish for, Princess. You just might get it!"

For many, many years, how I wished that were true! I wished for a puppy. I got a baby brother (and yes, he blogs, too. Please note that I am the funny one, he is the smart one.) Not quite what I wished for but ultimately, a much better deal. I wished I could be beautiful. I got acne, braces, and a scoliosis diagnosis. For the record, curvature of the spine = not beautiful. I wished for Peter O. to fall madly in love with me. Instead, he impregnated his high school girlfriend during our senior year and married her. (And I hear they lived happily ever, defying the odds. Crazy!) I wished I could be a ballerina like Coco from Fame and begged for dance lessons. In a private conference with my parents, the proprietor of the dance school I attended told my parents not to waste any more money on dance lessons for their clumsy daughter. I could go on but I think you get the idea. I spent 30+ years being careful about what I wished for, and let me be clear . . . it didn't make a lick of difference.

I have always been a superstitious kind of gal. Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight . . . I've wished on you! Wishing wells? Yup. Trevai Fountain? Absofrickinglutely. Loose eyelashes, birthday candles, fortune cookies. . affirmative. As a kid, it was a special treat to go out for a family meal at Perkins Restaurant – not because of the excellent silver dollar pancakes accompanied by a delicious smorgasbord of syrups – but because they had a wishing well. The Perkins wishing well never disappointed, either. Every time I made a wish, I reached inside that well and fished out some useless plastic trinket, made in China or some other "emerging" nation, and played with it until it inevitably broke, requiring another family meal to Perkins.

About a year ago, this princess made another wish. I wished for a prince. I wasn't looking for a white horse, a palace, or glass slippers. (For the record, I would accept any and all of these, but they certainly aren't prerequisites.) I wanted a partner – someone to share my thoughts, feelings, and dreams with; someone to cuddle with on the couch after a long day; someone to help me lift heavy objects; someone who I could share not only a meal with but also share my life with. And under the close supervision of an elf-therapist, I began kissing frogs in my quest to find Prince Charming.

I knew I'd have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince. This fact was confirmed by the elf-therapist. While some puritans might consider seven frogs a lot, my theory is that until I run out of fingers to count on, we're doing okay. So, I kissed seven frogs and then I met Suitor #1. Sure, he violated many of my dating commandments, but at the end of the day, he was tall, dark, handsome, and in possession of a full set of teeth, a job, and a full head of hair, so I overlooked some of the pre-existing conditions that normally would have been knockout factors. We went on a couple of dates. We laughed. We ate. We kissed. And . . . lo and behold . . . neither of us projectile vomited or ran screaming from the room. So we kissed some more.

Fast forward and suddenly, we've been together for 11 weeks. He says the "l" word and calls me his girlfriend. I've met the tadpoles. He's seen me without makeup on. I've seen him throw up. He's met my brother and some of my friends. But boys and girls . . . suddenly, the honeymoon is over and our true colors are coming out. He's disappointed in my undomesticated nature. While I am housetrained (barely), I refuse to cook, my standards of cleanliness are dubious at best, and he has wondered aloud if I have any other shirts. (This musing occurred after I wore the same t-shirt two days in a row. It didn't stink so I didn't see a problem with it.) We've shared all our witty "get to know you" stories and now our conversations revolve around, "So, how was your day?" In a nutshell, we're gone from infatuation and intrigue to something else.

When I was single, all I wanted was to find a prince, couple up, and live happily ever after. Now that I'm coupled up, I miss the independence of my single life. I'm not used to checking in with someone and reporting on my comings and goings. It's weird to talk on the phone to the same person every single night. I'm running out of things to say! I'm not used to having to consider someone else's feelings and insecurities and idiosyncrasies anymore. In my single life, if I wanted to stay out all night, I could. If a friend came over and drank too much, it was no problem to have him crash on the couch. If I wanted some quiet time, I just stopped answering the phone. I didn't have to apologize for being too slow to respond to a text or an email or a voicemail. I did my thing, tried to be a good friend, good sister, good dog-owner, good daughter, good employee . . . and although sometimes I was lonely, life was good. For the first time in my 30+ (and we don't need to count any higher than that, thank you very much) odd years of life, I finally felt comfortable, secure, and good with just plain being me.

Now that I'm coupled up, I can't help but wonder . . . should I have been careful what I wished for? As I try to be a good girlfriend and good partner, whatever that means, I worry that I've gotten into the Delorean time machine and regressed to pre-therapy princess. I notice similarities between Suitor #1 and the infamous Mr. Wrong. I notice the differences, too – but there are enough similarities that it makes me nervous. I catch myself breaking promises I've made – to my friends, to my family, and to myself, just to avoid arguing with Suitor #1. He's planning our future together and all I can think about is Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. Can I be happy with someone who doesn't read books? Who doesn't have cable TV? On the flip side, how can I not want everything that Suitor #1 is offering? He loves me – just the way that I am. Do I make him crazy? Hell, yes. But in spite of that, he wants to share my life. He doesn't complain if I want to watch a chick flick – and then fall asleep 10 minutes into the movie. He is happy to come with me to pick up groceries or dog food. I drooled on him (by accident) and he didn't freak out and make me have his couch cleaned. And he's even willing to come to church with me – something I've wanted in a partner for as long as I can remember.

Maybe I'm less of a princess and more of a screw-up than the elf-therapist and I originally thought . . . Time – and several more $35 copayments – will tell. Stay tuned for more.

© 2010 Princess D

 

Keeping a Suitor: Harder than Kissing a Frog

A clever gal with a witty sense of humor and excellent fashion sense recently told me that ending the frog blog now would be - and I quote - "like Melrose Place stopping mid-season".  While I appreciated the sentiment enough to get off my rear end and update my 21 fans on what's up, for the record, I sincerely hope that the drama quotient here in the Powderhorn Park neighborhood is significantly less than the havoc wreaked by Amanda, Michael, Sydney et al.  Once again, if you don't know who or what I'm talking about, you are too young to be reading this and your parents should be ashamed of themselves for not more diligently monitoring your internet usage.  (You know who you are.) 

Suitor #1 and I have been dating each other - and only each other - for nearly two months.  Kissing frogs, while frequently degrading, humiliating, and always entertaining, is actually a hell of a lot easier than being in a relationship with one.  Who knew? When you're merely kissing frogs, you wear a push-up bra, put on some extra eye-liner, and you smile sweetly until your face hurts.  But eventually, you wind up back home, alone, where you can safely wear the same sweatpants you've owned since college, a mustard-stained GeekSquad t-shirt you scored free, and the ugliest, grayest pair of giant granny panties known to mankind.  You can drown your sorrows in a glass (botttle) of Pinot Grigio, you can fill the emptiness inside you with Skinny Cow ice cream treats, and you can write ridiculous blog entries about your latest disaster while laughing at your own jokes.

When you are trying to relate to someone else, it’s a whole different story. You walk the tightrope between wanting to put your best face forward and opening up completely to someone else. You wonder, “Will he still like me when he finds out what my breath smells like in the morning?” You diligently avoid eating anything with onions or that might lead to excessive intestinal gas. God forbid he finds out that you . . fart. Or poop. Or anything else remotely human.

Part of the charm of Suitor #1 is that he is just as clueless as I am about what to do, and he’s just as afraid of screwing up as I am. We spend a lot of time dancing around landmines as a result. It’s no secret that I’m not all that thrilled about his ex-wife and tadpoles. I know it’s irrational and ridiculous at my age, but I resent being someone’s second or third choice. I’m a princess, for God’s sakes, not a consolation prize. Thanks to the brainwashing of Disney, Sweet Valley High, and countless chick flicks, I’ve come to believe that nirvana is walking down the aisle in a cute dress and a tiara. I want to believe that Mr. Right has been sitting on the sidelines (maybe in a chastity belt?) just waiting for me to show up all these years.  Insane? Uh . . . yes. As Suitor #1 aptly pointed out, it’s not like I was just sitting on my big ass waiting for Mr. Right to swoop by on a white horse all these years myself. And yet, to me, there is a significant difference between me shacking up with Mr. Wrong for 14 years and him standing in front of God and everyone else and saying, “I do . . . for better and for worse.”

Since I met this guy, I’ve been looking for reasons to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction – and for every reason I want to flee for the hills, he gives me two more reasons to stay put and follow my heart. Let me catalogue the evidence for you.

Exhibit A: The birthday party.
I threw a little soiree for myself this year in honor of the 10th anniversary of my 27th birthday. I really wanted to see the people I care about most on my birthday and I didn’t know any other way to do it beyond throwing a little party. Just add alcohol and look at that! We can all get along. I purposely threw this party on a day when I knew Suitor #1 would be preoccupied with his tadpoles because I didn’t want him to feel obligated to make an appearance. It’s stressful meeting the friends! Not only did he secure a babysitter, he showed up and in spite of the fact that I know he would have preferred a root canal without Novocain; he hung in there and met my friends. Why is this such a big deal, you ask? I’ll tell you why.

Some of you have known me a long time – and many of you never laid eyes on Mr. Wrong in all those years. In fact, several people wondered if he was a figment of my imagination since he rarely ventured out in public with me. I learned early on that Mr. Wrong only did what he wanted when he wanted. He would never submit to a night with my friends where he wasn’t the center of attention. Consequently, I hardly saw my friends for 14 years, and I went a lot of places alone. Or with my girlfriends, leading several to wonder if I’d adopted a lesbian lifestyle. (While I’ve threatened it many times, as it turns out, I like dudes. It’s my cross to bear.)

Exhibit B: Attention to Detail
I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but for some reason, I get a lot of flowers. When they come from my amazing friends, I cherish them and wonder how I got so lucky to have the world’s greatest friends. I often get red roses, however, from misguided frogs in an attempt to weasel their way into my Grinch-like heart. My motto is this. Save your money! Please. While flowers are beautiful, the way to this Princess’s heart is through quality time and service. Mow my lawn and I’ll love you forever. (Yes, Dave – this means you.) Cook me dinner and you’ll have a hard time getting me to leave your kitchen, or any other room of your house. (Frog #6 – I apologize for this. It’s just that you are a helluva cook. And there was CAKE, too.) Fix my refrigerator and I will make sure my legs are shaved every single time I see you.

Suitor #1 was asking some weird questions pre-birthday, along the lines of “what’s your favorite flower” and “if I wanted to send you something, where would I send it?” This led to awkward conversation #324 where I explained that he did not need to spend his hard-earned money on flowers for me, and in fact, if he was smart, he would invest it in the tadpoles’ college fund. I don’t want to be the reason these kids I haven’t met yet end up working at Red Robin. He kept pushing though, so I let it slip that sunflowers are my absolute favorite and you can save your roses for your prom date, thank you very much. It is also possible that I threatened to neuter him if he sent me flowers at work, but there are no witnesses so let’s not pursue that line of questioning any further, shall we?

I spent my birthday away from home but Suitor #1 didn’t forget my special day. He fed-exed me a birthday card at the office to make sure that I knew he was thinking of me on my day. I can’t think of anything sweeter than that! (I was also appalled that he spent $18 to mail a $3 card. We’re going to have to discuss this at some point.)

And, when I got home from work this week, I met a flower delivery guy who handed me the most beautiful bouquet of sunflowers I have ever seen. No stupid roses from this guy!

Is he tall, dark, and handsome? Yeah, he is. Since I was looking for red-haired and skinny, that’s not a ringing endorsement. (And that’s also not a lie, by the way.) Suitor #1 is everything I never knew I wanted and more than I ever imagined I could find.

Is it perfect? Of course not. This is life, not a fairy tale. He’s a little overprotective and a little insecure, and I’m a lot stubborn, have a big mouth, and I am independent as hell. What I think of as an innocent remark will keep him up all night wondering, “Is she harboring a crush on a dead guy?” or “What if she moves to Colorado?” What he considers helpful support can sometimes feel like smothering to me. What’s different is that we talk about it . . . all of it. And what makes him imperfect feels like the stuff I like the most.

I’m a smart princess and I know all about infatuation and lust and oxytocin. I know there is no such thing as “The One” and that none of us really live happily ever after, except really rich people who can afford to hire someone else to clean their toilets. (And even they don’t seem all that happy, to be honest.) But you know what? For once in my life, I’m not worried about happily ever after. I’m happy right now, in this moment. And that is enough.

© 2010 Princess D