Thankful to Be a Whole Better Me

Now that I've come out of the food coma that Thanksgiving so often puts me in, I've become quite reflective and still quite thankful. One hundred and fifty years ago Abraham Lincoln declared the last Thursday in November as a day of thanks and, in spite of their best efforts, retailers have not yet stripped the day of the value it holds for us. Free from the controversy of Christmas (religion, gift-mongering, etc), the materialistic connotations of Valentine's Day (expensive gifts and dinners), and the downright danger of Independence Day (heavy drinking + explosives), Thanksgiving remains relatively true to its original intent. A day of thanks to be spent surrounded by the people – and possibly things – for which you're most thankful.

Maybe I'm getting old or maybe it's hormones, but I find myself more sentimental than ever and Thanksgiving is as sentimental a time as any. This year Rick and I celebrated a milestone by hosting Thanksgiving for the first time in our new home. You see, once cooking an entire dinner for ten became too much for my grandmother and my parents moved out of state Thanksgiving turned into a haphazard holiday. Sometimes I spent it at my parents without Rick because he works on Friday can't travel out of state or with Rick and his family in Chicago but without any of my extended family. This year was the first time that we were all able to spend it together. And it was glorious (queue the choir!).

The day after Thanksgiving we also hosted the second annual 'Friendsgiving'. All of our friends gather – in pajamas no less – to gorge on (and hopefully deplete) leftovers while simply enjoying each other's company. You would think we'd all be too tired to get together the day after Thanksgiving, but it's a tradition that we plan to keep going as long as we can.

After two days surrounded by friends and family I realized what I am truly thankful for, though I was unable to declare it aloud. As cheesy as it sounds I am most thankful for Rick. Rick brings out the best in me. He is my other half in so many ways. He's calm when I'm stressed, he's stressed when I'm calm. He's talkative when I'm distracted and playful when I'm crabby. We fit each other like puzzle pieces. He also has brought so much to my life. His love, his family, his friends they're all a part of me now that I wouldn't trade for the world.

While a life partner may not be able to bring an ecosystem of friends and family to you, they should be able pinch-hit where you fall short and you should do the same. You can be whole on your own...never forget that! But a true love will make you an even better whole.

Accepting the Other Half of Your Other Half

Being committed to someone – really committed – means accepting their good with their bad. Yes, we've all heard that before. But, make no mistake, 'accepting' someone doesn't mean spending the rest of your life with them. I 'accept' that my co-worker waits until the last minute to do every project then frantically pulls me in for help, I 'accept' that my insurance agent thinks email is an appropriate way to sell me life insurance, I 'accepted' that my ex-boyfriend was a chronic philanderer, but I certainly won't spend the rest of my life with these people. Everyone has a line. And it's important that we define it early on in relationships to prepare for situations like this:

My husband, Rick and I were freshly engaged when I had the second of many memorable meetings with his alter ego, 'Drunk Rick'. You see, Drunk Rick is the result of an avid beer drinker getting his hands on something much harder, say vodka, tequila, or – worse yet – whiskey. Drunk Rick creeps in quietly telling my otherwise well-meaning, level-headed husband  'pour yourself another...you can handle it'.  

On one evening in particular, we were celebrating the 20-something birthday of a mutual friend in the VIP section of a club with a steady stream of Grey Goose. Between songs, I noticed Drunk Rick stumble toward a table and clumsily pour himself a drink, having needed because he'd spilled two others before. I grabbed him explaining that it was "time to go." Drunk Rick followed drunkenly along behind me as I said good-byes on behalf of us both. Upon arriving at the coat check we realized that Drunk Rick lost my coat check ticket. The sign "lost tickets must wait until after closing to collect coats" glared down at me from its taped up position on the wall. An ocean of black Pea coats of all shapes, sizes, and materials spread out ahead of me. My favorite London Fog somewhere lost out to sea. It was hours before closing time and there was no way I could keep Drunk Rick in line during that time. As I turned to leave, livid over the ridiculous loss of a coat quite possibly right in front of my face, Rick grabbed at my shirt and refused to let go. Security quickly scooped him up and commenced to carrying him out as he yelled "do you know who I am" all the way down the two flights of stairs to the exit. Horrified, I retrieved my husband's best friend who would be much more likely to claim relation to Drunk Rick than me.

At that point, everyone in our party decided to call it a night mercifully sharing in my walk of shame. Outside security had Drunk Rick pinned against a gate while he continued to question, loudly, as to if they knew who is was and when they didn't answer replied "I'M RICK!". (Side Note: Rick had started working part-time for the same security firm that employed these guys a few weeks prior. The firm was owned by an alderman whose son was a good friend of Rick's, which is how he got the job. Apparently, he felt this gave him some clout. It didn't.) Eventually Drunk Rick's best friend managed to dump him into the passenger seat of my car. And when he leaned over the door to throw up I noticed, in all his rage, Drunk Rick had almost completely ripped the arm off of the Calvin Klein blazer he was wearing that I'd gotten him for Christmas the year before. Icing on the cake.

This wouldn't be the last time Drunk Rick showed his face; each time with its own flavor of ridiculousness or rage. Like the time he threw up in the coat closet because he angrily insisted he 'WAS in the bathroom', or the time he made a teary-eyed, but fake marriage proposal to me in front of our family and friends only to claim he couldn't remember anything the next day, or the time he started spitting on the floor of our bedroom because I wouldn't let him sleep in his shoes.

While these all make for hilarious stories (our friends and I considered getting shirts made that said 'do you know who I am' on the front and 'I'M RICK' on the back one year as a joke Christmas gift), they typically end in a hung over, regretful apology coupled with promises to never drink hard liquor again. Now, do I ever really think this will never happen again? Of course not! That's why it keeps happening. The point is that months before that embarrassing exile from a club we can never go back to, Rick and I got engaged (for real engaged, not Drunk Rick engaged) which meant that I love this a**hole enough to put up with Drunk Rick coming out every once in a while over an entire lifetime. I don't get any less angry and Rick doesn't apologize any less shamefully, it's just something that happens. In the voice of a Jehovah's witness on my front porch at 7AM, I have accepted Drunk Rick into my life. Because he carries so much good along with him.

So the question remains, how much bad are you taking with your good?

Maybe it's time to accept someone, but let them go. Or maybe it's time to accept someone and let 'it' go so you can love them anyway. Either way, 'acceptance' does not signify 'commitment'.

One Year Later

One year ago today, I woke up at 6am tired and groggy from a late night of girl talk and free wine. I had my hair and makeup professionally done while I let several mimosas go to my head. I employed the help of three other girls to put on a while ball gown adorned with lace, chiffon, and crystals. I got closer to my sister than I ever have when I realized that I'd forgotten to put on my something blue panties.

I paced the floor of the Knickerbocker lobby waiting for a limo driver that was thirty minutes late. The nerves subsided just a bit each time a tourist ooh'd, ahhh'd and asked to take a picture with me. I yelled at the sweet but late driver when he asked which route to take to avoid traffic "WHICHEVER ONE IS THE QUICKEST!". My chest began to heave as we approached the church and before I could speak my wonderful florist whisked out of the car and to my Dad in the bridal room. His eyes teared up as the photographer captured our Father Daughter moment.

I began to cry when I saw how many people were in the pews waiting to share our special ceremony. I kneeled longer than I ever thought I could and swapped one Maid of Honor for another when the first got light headed from it all. I smiled uncontrollably as the ceremony, kiss, and pictures went off perfectly. We arrived at the party we threw just for us bathed inattention and champagne. I was surrounded by waiters holding plates of flaky, bite-sized Beef Wellingtons and crispy coconut shrimp. Family and friends excitedly talked with just wanting a moment with the lady of the hour.

I cried at times I never thought I would (best man speech) and I times I knew I would (Father Daughter dance). We convinced people that we practiced our first dance for weeks though we'd been so busy planning we hadn't danced in months. We wowed our guest with a venue that most people hadn't been to in a decade, if at all. We hosted as ifmit were our own home and joined in the show whenever we could. I shocked when I arrived in a party dress

and even my grandmother, who walks with a cane, couldn't keep from getting down. The dance floor, like people glasses, were never empty and the party went on much longer than we could.

One year ago today, I walked into a suite similar to the one I'm in now and next to a man I knew I could never stop loving. And the next day I woke up the way I pray I always will: in the arms of my husband. Today we celebrate our one year anniversary and I invite everyone who celebrated with us this day one year ago to celebrate right along with us. We can't be there but please have a drink, share a laugh and a dance on us!

Sentimental value, like love, should be reserved for people not things.

The title of this blog is actually an original quote that I recently posted on Facebook.  It received several likes, which leads to believe that it's not to be taken lightly. This quote came to me during the time Rick and I have spent away from home. I miss home so much that it's thrown off many of the activities that I regularly enjoy, cooking a nice dinner, having a glass of wine (or two) relaxing on the couch, even exercising. I've tried reminding myself that home is what you make it and being anywhere as long as it's with Rick should feel like home. So it's possible that I created this quote as a way to convince myself of its validity. It was this quote that I said over and over again to myself as I walked through the darkened lobby of my company's Chicago Loop office last night to gather my things. I've accepted a position with another group - still within my same company - that will take me out to our west suburban office. I repeated this mantra to keep from getting "sentimental" about my departure.

Of course I'll miss the hustle and bustle of the city, but after close to 6 years down here I don't approach this change with complete disdain. I'll miss popping across the street for a happy hour cocktail, especially when it leads to an entire night of festivities hitting one hot night spot after another. I'll miss the fast-paced, no nonsense way in which the working class operates downtown. Knowing we're all here to achieve the same main goals - work, lunch, home - creates a kind of unity that is difficult to find among such diversity. Seeing the same people at 9 that you do at 5, even though you may live worlds apart is grounding. In the suburbs you see the same people because you work with them. You know where they're going, you know who they work for, and eventually you start avoiding them because if you have to grin through one more bout of small talk you might just claw your eyes out. Those things almost don't exist downtown. And here I go getting sentimental again.

Let me end this by saying that I've given myself permission to feel sentimental today. Not because I'll miss the silent strangers on the street, the gleaming walls of the office lobby, or even the happy hour options, but because I'll miss my people.  The people who have become like family to me because we argue, we joke, and even though we rarely hang out outside of the office when we do it's like we do it all the time. So it's the people, not the things that I'm getting choked up about. They may not know it because I certainly won't show it, but I'm smiling to hold back whatever emotions might actually show if I let them. Because even in a city as small town as Chicago, leaving the center is like moving to another planet.

All-in-all I believe the quote "sentimental value, like love, should be reserved for people not things" is meant to help me disconnect from things and recognize what is really driving the sentiment: memories, people, experiences, so that I can hold on to what's important and let go of what is not.

The Anniversary and Love

Today is our 3-year anniversary. Which in and of itself is a shock to the dome because you realize that once you hit the anniversary you actually start the next year. So as of tomorrow Rick and I will be in the 4th year of our relationship. Ah-ha...bet you never thought of it that way did you? Well I did and now I do all the time. I was thinking yesterday that I was 23-years-old when Rick and I met. I was fresh and fancy free, just out of college and full of potential. And now I'm 26...not to say that I've lost any of that potential or that I've gone bad. It's just...it's just that it's been 3 YEARS! What is he waiting for???? Ooops did I say that out loud.

Anyway, I caught a glimpse of another interracial couple giving each other a kiss good-bye this morning in the in the tunnel Jackson (woo woo Blue Line!). It wasn't their interracial status that caught my attention (of course), it was that he was a very attractive (albeit short) guy and she was a dumpy, badly-dressed (though I'm sure sweet as pie) girl. That got me to thinking about love. When you fall in love it doesn't matter what love looks like, or what love says, or does because whatever it is, well you love it. Then the years go by and love puts on a few pounds, starts dressing in hippie-esque mu-mus and dingy sweaters, love stops styling its hair all nice. And there's nothing you can do about it because it's love and it got you a long time ago. Love rolls over on you in the morning and sometimes you wish it would just move over a little bit. Love is waiting at home for you and you want to spend time with it, but you need to go to the gym or everyone is going out for drinks after work. Then Love makes you feel bad and selfish, and then when Love wants to go out part of you wants them not to, but that only reminds you again of how selfish you can be. Love has a way of doing those things. Love never felt that way when it first came along. It never dressed that way, or smelled that way, or cooked dinner that way. But at least it's still Love, right? Right!