Day 7: Monogamy. Marriage. Misunderstandings.

When someone announces their engagement, I always have mixed feelings. Part of me wants to give the couple a bear hug, share in the craziness of wedding plans and nerves, and buy a bunch of kitchen stuff. And part of me wants to get the hell out of there. Good luck. Bon voyage. Hope you buck the trend of divorce.

There is something about a wedding that is very scary. I'm just going to say it. Maybe that way, it will seem less scary. I think it scares Bela too, because he just growled.

Let me clarify. Monogamy is great. It seems easy to be committed to one person at a time--even more so if you really love him. It's like Carry said: "Seeing another man would be like trying to fit another outfit into an already over-stuffed suitcase." Exactly, except I always find room for another outfit. I have never understood the folks who can date multiple people with equal levels of intimacy--cuddling and kissing, sharing dreams, etc. Conversely, if they don't feel much for the people, why are they seeing them at all?

Granted I've dove in way too fast with the wrong kind of guys without acknowledging that the alert level was sitting steadily at orange. There was a depressed Russian guy. After him, an alcoholic Peruvian artist. Most recently was a fellow with a chronic wandering eye, whom I thought it would be a good idea to re-date (bad idea, surprise). He somehow managed to give off just enough affection to keep me coming back for more. Believe you me, I did not go looking for these classic Prince Charmings; they just found me. But in each instance I gave it my all. My all or nothing, that's my motto. It's gotten me into a lot of trouble, but it's also gotten me Hank.

But even with my two-feet-in-and-soaking philosophy, whenever I watch this episode (probably about 5 times now), I feel sad when I should feel happy. When Big and Carrie get together at the end (Mr. Big implies he'll "stand still" with her, which, not to be spoiler for the non-SATC-obsessed, goes awry in a big way, no pun intended), that conflicting emotion thing happens. I think it's called confusion.

Engagements bring the same sensation. One side of me wants to shout, "Hurray!" It's what the two people want, and they seem so happy in their best moments. I just know it will all work out. The other side wants to kick (some of) them and shout, "What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you see that there are some big problems here?" (Dichotomies. They are so two-faced.) And I do it with my own relationships, always have. I see the good and the bad, the love and the struggle. Love always wins. And I think it should. But it makes for a hard road. And how do you know when it's too hard? (I think all romantics should be born with the answer to this question. It's our right.) How can relationships that are right be so flawed, and how ones that are flawed be so right?

But sometimes they are, even the really good ones. When I used to read relationship books (gave them up, like a person gives up cigarettes), they would always state, "No relationship is perfect." And it's true. What's perfect anyway? However, the hardest part--why the idea of marriage and of trusting one person for the rest of your life is so scary--is that it's so very hard to tell between the good eggs and the ones that are just a little too sour, between the people who will hopefully enhance your life and the ones who will make you want to die early, even if you have to ingest fire. And probably these opposing emotions comprise every relationship. And it makes the relationship alive. Could we even enjoy the peaceful times without the conflicts, however small? Some days it seems perfect, some days a bit lacking, and others a complete disaster. Heck sometimes it's the difference between a few hours.

That's what makes me sad about this episode. There are NO ANSWERS. And I like answers. Carrie is just doing her best with the information she has and the love she feels. Been there done that. It's not a guarantee for happiness or that anything will work out, but it's the best any of us can do. That's the bitch about being in love. We can only do our best.

In non-SATC news, I had another interview yesterday. My mom sent me this article about how difficult the job market is right now. I have to say I nearly cried reading it, because it's everything I'm going through. It felt good to know I'm not alone. Thanks, Mom. I'll send you a picture of me in my McDonald's uniform soon. Just kidding (sometimes you gotta clarify).

And I have thought of a brilliant, no BRILLIANT, plan to overcome my shopping tendencies. Whenever I feel like shopping online, I'm going to browse the selection and pick out my favorite things. Then, get ready for this. Don't wet your pants, though. Instead of adding them to my "shopping bag," I am immediately going to post them here! "Wow!" you are probably saying. And I don't blame you. Would you expect any less from the History Graduate of the Year? Now I just have to figure out how to post them...and I will have created the perfect antidote to accumulating massive credit card debt (oh wait, it's too late for that).

I am going to go grocery shopping, because we have no food. Then I will take Bela for a walk. My days are like crazy busy. I barely have time to shower and get dressed, much less write on this blog. So I have to get going. But stay tuned for Carrie and the girls discussing threesomes!

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 6: It's Important to Do What You Do

"This is not me. This is me reacting to your perception of me." Carrie

This fragment of SATC deals with secret sex--the great stuff you have with people you're embarrassed to introduce to your friends. Since I have only been in relationships, I really can't attest to knowing what this is about. (Why do I even bother writing about this show if I can't relate to it?) If you're attracted enough to someone to sleep with him, it seems you should think your friends and family will find him attractive enough too...and if they don't, who cares?! You're having great sex!

It must have been fun to sit around and come up with topics for the show. It's the one chance to think of all manner of bizarre issues concerning love. Obsessed with models? Great, one episode down. Can't live without blow jobs? Okay, we'll use that in season five. Thirty hilarious minutes on secret sex? The audience will love it. Probably because we've never had it. It's just so novel.

Hank thinks I write because it makes me feel like Carrie. Here I am alone on a Saturday night, writing on the couch, while Bela snores and chases who knows what in his dreams. It could be depressing. But because Carrie does it and is glamorous, so can I.

The truth is, I don't feel glamorous. I feel like facades are crumbling all around me. Even with the show.... I remember remarking to my sister about how much I love SJP's style. And she said, "You mean the style of the person who styles her?" Ouch. M's in show business. She knows all about this stuff, but I don't. And that's when it hit me. I have a really hard time telling the difference between reality and what goes on in my imagination--between what's real and what's just really convincing.

Maybe everyone has their obsessions. Mine are SATC, Victoria's Secret, and spicy food. Yay. Maybe there are more. I've had people say that you should make peace with them, laugh at them, even exploit them to make your footprint in the world a unique one. But in the end, maybe they're just sad. They lull us into an alternate reality that makes us feel great in the moment, but in the end leaves us the same people we have always been--the ones we have been trying to escape through our obsessions. And we better be okay with that.

But even if we were to get beyond trite fixations like Sunday football (don't look at me), mayonnaise (I know a girl who ate this on absolutely everything) and my SATC reruns and try to be real every minute of our lives, it seems like there's a whole vastness of larger obsessions. Some of them we might not even know about--like an obsession with cleanliness (if you see our house, you will know I obviously don't struggle with this one), being ambitious at work, or, what I fear may be one of mine, feeling morosely analytical about life.

That's why I never kept a journal for very long growing up. Why record all of my crazy thought patterns? Wasn't thinking them painful enough?

Just tonight, Hank asked me to go out with him and his study group friends. There might be wine there, he said, and we could chat when they weren't studying. Nothing sounded worse to me than tagging along with him to study. I mean how lame could I get? It's bad enough that I don't have other options to speak of, but I can't imagine sitting around with a bunch of med students letting them practice physicals on me--all while trying to make casual conversation? No way.

But who knows, it could have been fun. At least I would have breached the 1/2 square mile distance around our house and talked with other creatures besides Hank and Bela. I asked him to consider the reverse. Would he go to a fashion discussion group with me or a meeting about piano technique? He said sure, especially if he was lonely, was in a new town, and wanted to meet some friends. And I believed him. After saying, "Thanks, hon, but I'm okay here" with a smile and watching him leave, a larger worry set in. Is there something in me that opposes being happy?

It's like I'm always waiting for that perfect thing to come along to do the trick. First it was the perfect man, but he came. While I'm near blissful in the relationship realm, now it's the perfect career. Maybe I will be satisfied once I get a position writing for a fashion magazine, sign my first book deal, or design a beautiful formal wear line. Or maybe teaching English in the Peace Corp will make me feel at peace with myself at last. If not, perhaps once I have children, I'll feel whole. Or...Will there always be something missing? Always some reason I hold myself back from being happy????

I don't have the answers to these questions tonight. Maybe I never will. But I hope so.

I do know that it's time for a movie and a walk with the pup. Sometimes too much thinking makes the world a scary place. But it's nothing some fresh air, a warm brownie, and a cup of tea won't cure, and I plan to partake in all three. So goodnight for now. I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 5: Ah, Dating Twenty-Somethings...Wait, I'm Twenty-Something

The gang's big complaint is that the twenty-something man dating an older woman either thinks she's exotic, his mother, or just another good $%^&. Or there is the odd young chap like Skipper who just follows Miranda around like a lost puppy.

I think this is a bit of a stretch (as if SATC is supposed to be highly factual). Granted, I have usually dated older men. Actually I have ONLY dated older men. My first boyfriend in high school was a junior when I was a freshman. The year span seemed to increase as I got older. For a brief time at 21, I dated a 38-year-old with a 6-year-old girl. Once I realized that I was closer in age to her, it made things awkward. But all through my 20s, thirty-somethings have been my men of choice. I always scoffed at girls who dated younger guys, thinking they must be in it just for the sex. Inevitably, I thought, the guy would need to go off and get his testosterone fix by sleeping with another girl or slapping some guy's butt at a kegger.

Then Hank came along. When our mutual friend, Alan, told me about Hank, he mentioned a few facts. First, Hank was prematurely balding. Second, he was 24. I didn't care about the receding hairline, but having just turned 27 myself, the age thing freaked me out.

I mean, obviously it wouldn't work out, right? How could a 24-year-old feel serious about anything? I conveniently had forgotten my engagement at 21. Or maybe I hadn't. That had ended when I canceled the wedding two weeks before the big day. After that, my early twenties were a whirlwind of bad relationship decisions--mostly made because I wasn't mature enough to know myself and what I wanted and needed. Maybe that was what bothered me. When I was 24, I was a mess. So how could someone else be completely settled? Heck, I didn't even think I was mature at 27.

But I met Hank anyway, despite my foreboding, and have been amazed ever since. Maybe it's that Hank's mother is a few years older than his father--actually 3 years and a couple of months to be exact, the same as Hank and I--so he's used to the age difference. Or maybe it's that his family members have gotten married young (most before age 24), so that's just the time he thinks is right for settling down. But Hank says he knew he wanted to marry me the night we met, and I don't think it wasn't because he was a lost puppy. He had been alone for over a year before we met and had had plenty of time to get to know himself. No, it was because he's Hank.

Dating a younger guy does have its less amazing sides. Sure, he really doesn't know how to do laundry correctly (I'm sorry, hon, but it's true). He just throws it all together, which would be a travesty for my white capris (that is, if I let him touch them, which I don't). One of our first formal dates consisted of playing beer pong with his buddies. The fact that I played--and liked it--seemed like a sign from God that we were meant for each other. When he makes dinner, it's soup from a can. He claims it's because that's all he has time for. Otherwise he would make steak every night. No salad. Just steak.

But when it comes to real measures of maturity, Hank's way ahead of his older counterparts (and I know) and surely ahead of me. He'll say wise things like, "You'll find the job that's right for you." He's better at disciplining our dog than I'll ever be, and he already has an booming retirement account (I wouldn't even know where to start). Most importantly, he knows what he wants out of life. When I said I couldn't wait to have kids one day, he didn't say something like, "Yeah, I guess in like ten years" or (worse) "Yeah, I'd be ready for another one soon." Instead, he said he'd been waiting to have a baby since he was ten and only wanted to be married first. He was actually behind schedule, since he wanted one at 20. But, of course, he said, it would happen at the right time.

He's like a 24-year-old Confucius, and I'm the lost puppy.

Sometimes I remind him of our age difference just to get him going, you know play the age card. But he always trips me up. When he talks about dorm-room memories like they were yesterday (they were), I'll say, "You're so young." And he'll say, "So are you." He's right. But I have a feeling even if I was 40, he'd still say it, and I'd still feel like it was true.

Maybe most twenty-something guys don't have years of past relationship muck, a steady career, or amazing cooking skills. Maybe some of them really only want to have fun and play the field. But if you find that rare man who loves you and who you love, regardless of age, never let him go. Even if you have to do the laundry.