‘Ello. I’m sure a few of you thought perhaps I died or was mauled by a rabid marmoset or something, since it’s been eons since I posted anything. Well, never fear: I’m back! Though only long enough to give you an update on where I am now and to say that this will be my last second-to-last post on this blog. My penultimate post, if you will.
Yup. Since starting this blog almost 7 years ago, I’ve shared (entirely too much, some might argue) about my adventures in dating & singlehood, mostly. I kvetched (let’s be honest: bitched mercilessly) about relationships and bemoaned life in general. In fact, reading old blogs is positively horrifying for me. Sure, parts are funny, but to me, I see a lot of misery. I chalk most of that up to my unrestrained alcoholism and less about who I was (or wasn’t) dating that month.
So where am I today? Well, first, I’m over two years’ sober, which feels fucking fantastic. I could launch into an epically-long description of how shitty it was to be a drunk but hey — many of you read about it in real time, so I think you get my drift. Of course, I still have days where I imagine how nice it’d be to be able to have a fat-ass margarita and let the day slip off my shoulders, but it was never “a” margarita for me. As the saying goes, one is too many and a thousand’s never enough. I never could just have one, and after one, there was no telling how I’d end up.
The day I got sober, I was also hugely fat. Like, “Damn bitch, you about to drop dead any minute now” fat. Last year, I had gastric bypass and today, I weigh 126 lbs less than I did on January 14, 2013. Which is awesome. Just crazy, nutty, awesome. Being able to shop in most normal stores (buying a L/XL BUT STILL) will just never get old. I shopped exclusively at Lady Giant (Lane Bryant) for waaaayy too many years, and while I applaud them for offering relatively (sometimes too) trendy clothes for plus sized women, I no longer need to shop there.
Of course, sometimes in my head, that 126 lbs is still on my body, and I am just as big and awkward and lumbering. And on the days I do feel leaps & bounds better about my body, I occasionally am brought back down to earth by the flab left behind. Yes, the sagging skin. A swift kick in the tits to the women who don’t experience this. Seriously, just fuck you. For me, a lifetime fatty, my skin elasticity up and quit this bitch a long time ago. I have pulled way too many diet/gain-back numbers on my body, and although I have good, pretty-elastic Slavic skin, certain spots just ain’t havin’ it. Like my arms, which are the banes of my existence. I bought a dress online that TOTALLY FUCKING FITS…except in the arms. That’s what it’s come to now. I tried cramming them in the sleeves, but, like overstuffed, petulant sausages, they refused to go nicely.
They are just awful. Let me put it this way: if Alex is sleeping here, and I have on a cute little chemise-style nightie? I’m wearing a cardigan over it. To bed. They’re that bad. And this is to say nothing of my tits, which are still laughably big, and only decent looking if squeezed into the most expensive, supportive bra ever. (What up Wacoal.) And my stomach — sweet Jesus! There’s nothing that will snap your ass back into reality like trying to have a sexy moment and hearing your extra skin slap against your body. Since I am still a ways from having any kind of skin removal surgery, I will just have to pour myself into Spanx (truly a God-send for people like me) and keep lifting all that shit at the gym that my freakishly chipper trainer tells me to.
So there’s that. Oh, and I’m getting married. In two months. To Alex, my Viking.
Yeah, I still can’t believe it. Here was this guy, who I briefly blogged about years ago (2011, I believe), who asked me out and then tweaked and didn’t talk to me for 3 years, asked me out again, made a few missteps, but fell for me anyway, all before I had my bypass surgery. There’s a picture my mother took of him the day of my surgery. He’s dressed up in jeans & a sports coat, looking fly as hell, sitting next to me in my hospital gown, holding my hand about 45 minutes before they gave me an IV of the good shit and I went into surgery. My younger, blond-hair-blue-eyed, cat-loving, Scandinavian Marine. He *loves* me. A lot. And we have a shit-ton in common. We actually like each other too, which is important. And he will clean my cats’ eye boogers — albeit while cringing, but still. So in November, he got down on one knee, on a cold, rainy night on a big beautiful bridge, and asked me to marry him. And the word, “Yes,” couldn’t come out of my mouth fast enough.
So that’s it. We’re not having a big wedding; in fact, it’s family only, much to the chagrin of some of my friends. It’s just that I can’t with all the hoopla. I can’t with having a total thrombo over cake icing or napkins or my bouquet. To me, that is for younger brides, the ones who really care about the wedding. They want a big party for all their friends. They want to outdo their friends’ weddings. They want to be a princess. They want it to be THEIR day, goddammit. And I just was not about to sign on for any of that shit. I would rather have a bear fart in my face than develop stress acne over what shade of beige my 19 bridesmaids are going to wear. I DON’T CARE.
I am, however, intensely invested in what my marriage is going to be like. That’s what I care about. I am 38 fucking years old. I have a Kitchen Aid mixer, nice sheets and a new duvet from Pottery Barn. Are there some things I’d like? Yes, and my registry is RIDIC. But if we didn’t get a thing on it, I’d be fine. All I want to do is marry that wonderful man and wake up next to him every single day for the rest of my life. There is no one whose nerves I’d rather get on, whose farts will endearingly gross me out, whose boxers I will fold, whose dreams I will do my best to support. I never thought, in a FRAJILLION FUCKING YEARS, that I would get to marry this guy.
In fact, I had a dream during that 3 year span of him first asking me out and us finally trying it again. I remember it distinctly: he and I lived in a small village, and while in my cottage one day, I looked out into the town square and saw him standing there, a rather unremarkable, mousy girl by his side. He was announcing to the town elders (what in the fuck kind of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale shit was this, exactly?) that he intended to marry this girl. And all I could do was watch from my hut or whatever. I remember thinking (in my dream), “NOOOOOOOOOO. NO. No! I haven’t had my chance with him yet!”
I had a feeling about him. I did, truly, even in my booze-addled state. Granted, I probably had feelings about a lot of things that didn’t turn out worth a damn, but he was different. About 8 months prior to us finally getting together this time, I remarked to a mutual friend of ours, “I am going to go out with Alex one day, dammit. I want to shed some chunk first, but it’s going to happen, even if I have to be the one doing the asking.” (And it did happen. And I hadn’t shed the chunk when it did. Holla, big girls!)
But I didn’t have to do the asking. Not for a date, and not to get married. That was all him. He is the cutest damn thing I have ever seen and there’s not a soul I’d rather spend my time with. He can be maddening, and stubborn, but he is also so lovable. He and I needed each other. And we had to slog through some shit, hurt, and disappointment before we met each other so we could get to each other at just the right time.
So. The next blog I post here will be a link to my new blog, which I haven’t decided upon yet. I need to think about a new direction, and what my foundation will be. Because this blog, as it stands and what it stands for, isn’t really who I am anymore. It is a tale of my journey, for sure. And I regret nothing. One misstep, one smarter decision, one disaster averted, and I wouldn’t be where I am today. And today, I am as happy as fuck. Who knew.