When I first visited Hawaii four years ago, I wrote a long entry about the trip that I published for one second before I hid it. The post involved running, the upcoming New York City Marathon, musings on how to successfully dodge tourists and people carrying surfboards, and how unnatural it is to experience 80-degree weather in October. Given that it feels like it gets that hot sometimes in D.C. in October, I don’t know what I was smoking. Then again, it was my first October in D.C., so I probably hadn’t been properly introduced to (read: tortured by) real D.C. Indian summers that last for-frickin’-ever.
You think that all seems innocuous—why the hell would I hide it? Well, because there was a huge rant about all the brides I was seeing around my hotel and how jealous I was. Yes, I am hanging my head in shame as I type this (without typos, too, because I’m just that good of a typist), but it’s true: I hated seeing every single bride I saw because she was not me.
Boo. Hoo.
This time around, I was just really, really glad there was a kick ass white gold Sholdt band beneath my emerald engagement ring from Kona—I’m really, really glad that the planning and the stress leading up to the wedding day are over. Mind you, that isn’t to say the day wasn’t great at all. I absolutely love looking back on my wedding day and will periodically leaf through our awesome photos because the thought of having married IP still makes me grin like a fool more than 10 months later. But in every bride’s face this time around I saw not only the happiness of being married, but the melting away of all the stress that wedding planning induces. That’s why I don’t get people who mope around and say they miss their wedding planning process. Do they not realize they are free from the monsters that are paper projects and finding the right pair of shoes for their dresses? Instead of grumbling internally about why it’s not me, this time I was glad that it wasn’t me. If I could, would I relive the wedding all over again? No, I don’t think so. It happened like it was supposed to happen, and I am happy with that. And the end result is the same: I’m Mrs. WordNerida IPia, and that’s all that matters.
But yeah, I was totally jealous. So shoot me! To boot, here’s my long-hidden paragraph on the subject:
The hotel where we stayed and held our event is the oldest in Waikiki, and if I hadn’t been placed on the modern side, I’d have been wondering about ghosts upon check in. I’ve seen enough entities clad in white, though—the hotel has bride upon countless bride passing through each day, taking photographs of themselves and their bridesmaids and of course their grooms, giggly and happy and overly saccharine. It’s not so much that they are annoying me (I am conscious of not nearing them when I have coffee in hand, trying to spare them my klutziness), but they’re making me jealous. At first, it was just a creeping feeling, one I could easily brush aside and ignore. Now, five days in, I see a bride and my heart leaps with envy, envy that sometimes makes my stomach churn uncomfortably (and puts off lunch). I could try to deny it, but it’s there—I know that, sooner or later, I want to be in their place. As the only unmarried girlfriend from my high school quintet, I get a lot of grief from the hometown, and until this week, I hadn’t realized I could want to stop being the last so badly. What can I say? I’m a woman, already 28 to boot. That translates to old (and spinster-y) in a lot of peoples’ books. Maybe the feeling will fade when my plane finally takes off and heads east. Eastward ho!
I knew, even back then, that this type of commitment would eventually happen, and even my boss teased me back then about how I should take notes for when IP and I married. I’d just joke the joke away, but inside I kind of was taking notes. The biggest notes I took away were these: no way in hell am I wearing a tiara or doing a destination wedding in a big tourist area.
In all, can I admit that I wanted the thrill of planning a wedding and all the hullabaloo that comes along with being engaged? I think I’m woman enough to cop to that. The end result, though, was marriage to IP, and it’s that fact that makes me the happiest. Wedding planning is not all it’s cracked up to be (and I should’ve known this, with a background in planning), but marriage is delightful. I’m not saying it’s easy—it’s a relationship, and IP and I work hard at it, but it’s that we work at it together that makes me the happiest. After I returned from my trip, just sitting and talking and laughing and joking with IP for a few hours before bed was awesome, and all the dresses and place cards and beaches and Mai Tais in the world wouldn’t make a whit of difference if it weren’t IP waiting for me, be it at the end of the aisle or at the end of a long trip. Marrying when we did was right for us, even if my 28-year-old self was jealous. We came into the marriage wiser, having endured many tests and obstacles and surprises, stronger for it all. It what was right for us, and I knew it then. I just let the green-eyed monster get a hold of me, is all.
*looks down again, shuffles feet* So there you have it.
However, this time around, I saw a baby shower at the hotel. I asked myself if I was jealous. The answer was no. I think we’ll deliberate on the kid thing a bit more!
At the spa, the massage therapist handed me a small bowl, saying, “This is Hawaiian salt. What you’re to do with this is project all your stress, frustration, and worries into the bowl; the salt will absorb it. And the end of the day, we take all the salt from the day and take it back to the ocean in a ritual that’s meant to give the salt and what it’s absorbed back to the water.” Pause. “Do you need a bigger bowl?”
I resisted cracking a joke about ocean pollution and concentrated on the bowl, trying to drum up some stress, frustration, and worry into the bowl. And the most surprising thing happened: nothing came to mind.
Sure, I’d just traveled around the world and spent four days in a crappy hotel and talked nonstop to people about my job. I was exhausted, and being back in the States and in the new hotel’s spa was a way of treating my introverted, tired self. But even though I knew I’d soon be returning to the more mundane aspects of my job, even though I still had 5,000 miles to go before I saw my husband, and even though I sometimes feel that the travel part of my job is not worth the stress it creates, I blanked on what to put into the bowl. Because, after this trip, I realize that I am indeed very, very fortunate.
I have a loving and amazing husband who supports me in what I do, and I hope I do the same for him; I have a family that loves me dearly and, even if I get annoyed with some of the questions and challenges they pose, I go to sleep knowing that they’re there for me. My job’s not the most intellectual of all jobs, but it keeps food on the table, allows me to visit some amazing places, and it gives me time to either dawdle or work on the writing (or blog post) that comes to mind on any given day. I’m healthy, happy with myself, have a great education, am still learning many wonderful things, and the people around me are pretty damn neat-o.
So when I tried to project that stress, that frustration, and that worry into the bowl of salt, I just couldn’t. I’d just come from a place where poverty’s extreme, where children drop out of school at the elementary level, where men can’t wait for their government check to go drinking and women are beaten according to that check cycle. In the grand scheme of things, I am very, very lucky, and the only thing I could think to project into that bowl was the stress, frustrations, and worries of the land I’d just visited. I hoped upon hope that they took our advice, that they geared up for intense writing and competition, and I hoped that they would come out on top in the end. Financial, educational, environmental, and societal challenges are all theirs, and for me to project my own petty worries (do I have to work on that dumbass event? damn, I’ve been having a bit too much at breakfast! I am going to have a shitload of laundry to do when I get home) seemed inconsequential and a waste of the spa’s ritual.
You may think it cheesy, but rituals in this part of the world are taken quite seriously—as seriously as any Western religious ritual. I know it means something even if I am forking over quite a bit of money, but at least I have the opportunity to fork over that money selfishly; the least I could do (in addition to working my ass off for these people and being there when they need help and guiding them through the process towards better education and opportunity) is let their worries take precedence in small and big ways.
I could do more, and given the nature of this part of my job, I will do more. Hopefully the bowl of salt given back to the Pacific is the first small step of significant change for the country I just visited.
The seriousness with which commuters tackle their commute is quite admirable but, at times, a little bit confusing. I can totally understand growling at tourists to move to the right or to not stand around Metro Center, blocking traffic, like a slack-jawed yokel. However, attacking a morning train in order to get to work on time baffles me. I have a good work ethic (check out my performance review! Wait, what, I haven’t received one review in the four years I’ve been here, never mind), and I try to get to work on time, but I’m not going to launch myself through Metro doors, in heels, in order to do so. Just . . . no.
May 3, 2010: Kamikaze Commuters
And thus ends this second installment of Sonnet 87 flashback posts. Going through my archives, I realized I had a ton of Metro stories. I think I may keep this theme for my next vacation. Hope you enjoyed!
Sometimes, a picture is worth a thousand words. And you thought only tourists and transplanted Michiganders added unnecessary S’s to proper names. Hah!
There are days when Metro’s out to get you, and it gets you by a) not showing up and II) offloading you when a train finally does show. Metro chose Christmas Eve 2008 to rake me over the commuting coals. Merry fuckin’ Christmas.
Some commuters are overly chatty. You know who they are—they talk loudly and proudly about who they are, what they do, what they like, and what they don’t like. Be it on their cell or with their seatmate, these people can talk and hardly anyone can get in a word edgewise. And it’s not like they have melodious, relaxing, soothing voices. Oh no, they have the nasally voice, the grating laugh, the mouth-breathing to go along with their cluelessness. Oh, joy. Makes you want to invest in some noise canceling headphones, doesn’t it?
Metro has a way of jarring you out of your post-vacation bliss. Be it delays, customer antics, or just the return to the humdrum way of getting around, Metro’s a downer. When we came back from our honeymoon, IP and I took a taxi home and let me tell you: best way to extend vacation bliss. Try it if you can. In the meantime . . . enjoy this little tidbit of the hell that is Metro after a break from D.C.
What happens when a litter conscious commuter decides to jump in front of Metrobus to pick up an apple core? Well, nothing, but it goes to show that old public service announcements still resonate for Generations X and Y.
So. Next week, I’m gone again. Unfortunately, it’s not a vacation I’m taking with IP, but the destination isn’t too terrible. See that banner picture up top? I’m going somewhere similar again. The travel is brutal and the work is exhausting, but there is a crystal clear beach at the end of the day, so I really can’t complain (but ask my introverted self how I’m doing next Thursday afternoon, and you’ll probably get a growl that’s somewhere between “Leave me the fuck alone” and “I wanna go home already.”).
While you may see some updates here and there, I can’t promise anything. I’ll be without a phone for at least three days thanks to no access, but I may be forced to bring along a computer (since I refuse to use my personal stuff for work anymore ever since they broke my DVD drive and refused to pay for it).
Given the above over-explanation, guess what? You get more greatest hits from the Sonnet 87 archives starting Monday! Since the honeymoon series was about pre-D.C. me, this one is about D.C. me. Specifically, me and my adventures on Metro. Be it commuters or Metro itself, the commute to and from work always provides ample material for the blog. Because I’m gone for a week and a day, you guys get six flashback posts, you lucky dawgs.
I’m focusing on material that’s lesser known (i.e., never made D.C. Blogs or the Express when the Express actually paid attention to local bloggers), but what I consider amusing commuting episodes I’ve had over the years in D.C. Shining moments include the antics of commuters and tourists after coming home from a weekend in Michigan to Metro employees messing up Silver Spring’s name. Good times.
Ah, Metro. Will you ever learn?
Enjoy!
IP is setting up to have a roller coaster of a week, and while I can’t help him delegate and shoo away the annoying people who will come into his orbit, I can try to make him smile a bit.
So, in no particular order, here are 10 nifty things about my husband.
- He doesn’t wear polo shirts. I don’t know why, but I find polo shirts of all stripes hideous and unflattering on men and women. Maybe it’s too preppy for me? I don’t know, but IP is not a polo man, never has been, probably never will be. And to my dear brothers and father who do wear polos: you’re the only guys I know of who look good in polos, for realsies. I’m sure IP would look good in polos, too, but if he doesn’t feel the need to experiment, neither do I.
- He is an amazing cook. IP cooks for the joy of it, and it shows in his dishes. Be it a white pasta sauce with fish or a lasagna, his cooking is delicious. He also helps save his some kitchen-challenged wife from culinary disasters from time to time.
- He is not gratuitously complimentary. What I partly mean is: I don’t constantly seek out compliments, and he doesn’t feel the need to flatter me unnecessarily. However, there are times when he surprises me: I’ll be wearing something I think is fine if not pedestrian, and he’ll bust out with how good I look and how nicely it flatters my butt. I love it because it’s random and unexpected and sincere. Never change, honey! Keep them coming only when you feel like it!
- He sits down and discusses books with me. Good god, how I love having a literary discussion with IP. Be it here on the blog or at home at our kitchen table, I love talking about tropes, themes, devices, styles, and plot. I still remember discussing the intentional fallacy with him when we first started dating, and I knew then that he was awesome.
- He has a fantastic build. IP attracted me, mind and body, but as for body . . . hubba, hubba! He has a hockey player-ish kind of body, so . . . hot. I particularly love how he stretches after he’s been to the gym to lift some weights and his biceps and shoulder muscles pop out like whoa. Oh my . . . !
- He calls me on my shit. If I’m ranting or raving about something, IP will not endorse what I’m saying full tilt if he disagrees or thinks I might have approached things in the wrong way. But he’s respectful in how he calls me on it, and then we discuss whatever my shit is. I don’t need to be coddled if I’m in the wrong—I’m more than happy to hear a different point of view.
- He gives amazing hugs. The best thing in the world is to be hugged by IP (and no, you can’t get in line, sorry). I come from something of a touchy-feely family—I think it took him a while to get used to me throwing myself into his arms, but his hugs are the best and I cannot resist.
- He likes his space, and he makes it clear. The good thing is, I also like my space, and I make that clear. So while I’m all about throwing myself into his arms, I’m also all about the separate chillax time that we both need at times. The bottom line of #6 and #8? Honesty. We tell it like it is to one another.
- He does weekend singalongs with me. I don’t know when we started, and we don’t do it as often as we used to, but there are nights when it’s just us, beer, and our iTunes music open. Cue us singing the parody lyrics to Tears for Fears’ Head Over Heels. “I’ll check the files out when I get over heeeerrreee . . .”
- He’s hilarious. Be it an imitation of an old grad school nemesis, dissing Vernors, or discussions about Long Island retirees taking up side jobs as New Republic subscription telemarketers, the man makes me laugh about 10 times a day. At least. And I can probably attribute some of my ab muscle development to him and his sense of humor.
I hope this week goes by as fast and as painlessly for you as possible, babe. And remember, I’ll have beer waiting for you at home on Friday afternoon!