Wednesday, December 12, 2012
I think I just eloped...
I think I married myself this morning. It's a funny story, so I thought I'd share.
Since I was a kid, 12 has always been my favorite number. I remember being in Mrs. Sher's 5th grade class and realizing that one day, it would be December 12th, 2012... 12/12/12! I did the math and figured I'd be 25--the perfect age for getting married.
For the past week, I've been secretly contemplating having a little self-marriage ceremony. So last night, when my morning babysitting gig fell through, I thought, I guess this is a sign from the big guy upstairs. I wake up and google "self love songs" on my iPhone. After deciding against "Blister in the Sun" by the Voilent Femmes and "U Can't Touch This" by MC Hammer, I go with "Video" by India.Arie. I mean, I learned to love myself unconditionally, because I am a queen. Pretty solid.
Okay. So music's set. Time to put on my wedding outfit. Deep red dress with pockets. Red jeweled necklace. Red earrings I'm still borrowing (indefinitely) from my mom. Brown tights. Cowgirl boots.
I need a sweater. I google what time Target and Marshalls open. Target opens at 8am. It's 7:50am. Perfect. Except now I've got a track of anxiety running in my head: On my self-wedding day, should I really be going to Target to buy something?!?! Followed by my self-soothing mantra of late: What's best for me is what's best. Followed by a self-induced panic attack: Is shopping really what's best for me?!?! Followed by a repeat of the mantra: WHAT'S BEST FOR ME IS BEST!
Whatever. I get to Target and buy two sweaters and two pairs of pants. On my credit card. Fuck it.
I walk home in the opposite direction of the endless twenty something's flooding the Metro on their way to work. Shut and lock the gate behind me. Talk radio's on. Roommate's in the kitchen chowing down on some breakfast. Fuck, I think. What will I tell him if he asks why I'm so dressed up? I mean, this is a private self-marriage ceremony. He doesn't ask. Leaves for work. Phew.
I make myself breakfast. Sunny side up eggs on toast. Salt, pepper, sriacha. Clementine. Hand-poured coffee. Water.
I sit in the dining room, cool winter sunlight streaming through the musty ceiling high window. Deep red walls surrounding me. Sweater cozying my soul. Silence. Now what?
Well. I can always talk to myself, I think.
I start reciting my vows right there at the dining room table.
I promise to love you, to protect you, to treat you like a queen, to do what's best for you first and foremost, to stop fucking around with your heart, to be with you forever... It's you and me baby. Just us (and maybe... God?)... Forever and ever and ever.
Naturally, the tears emerge. And since this is a private self-marriage ceremony at the dining room table, I've got a lot of roles to play: bride, groom, guests, officiant, photographer...
As the photographer, it's my responsibility to capture moments like these. I open the iPhone camera, turn on mirror-mode, and begin clicking away. I look... weird. Puffy. Red. Sad. Oh well, keep clicking, I think as I improv my vows.
I finally snap a shot that looks somewhat happy. I run with it. Begin editing. Think, I can send this to all my friends with that new over-photo-app and write, "I eloped!...with myself!"
I'm in the middle of my ridiculous process, when I hear one of my roommates on the phone upstairs. SHIT! I wonder if she heard me crying! Reciting my vows!
She walks downstairs in a frenzy. She'd been up all night freaked out over a bug bite--not sure if it was a bedbug, spider, or what. With her eyes half-open, at 3am, she sees a mosquito land on her and kills it. THANK GOD, she thinks. (She's got an unusual paranoia about bed bugs that we like to kid her over).
We have a good laugh about the story, and then she does it... she asks me why I'm so dressed up.
I freeze. Uhhh...
Oh yeah! It's your wedding day!
I told you?!? I proclaim.
Yeah. Like a few days ago, you joked that you might marry yourself, she says with a matter-of-fact smirk.
Haha... yeah, well, I guess I'm marrying myself. But the truth is... I'm just sitting here talking to myself... I don't know what the fuck to do!
We burst out into laughter, both of us hysterical over our respective silly secrets--her paranoia, my cluelessness. Okay, our secrets are safe with each other, I say. I won't tell anyone about your night-long bug frenzy if you don't tell anyone about my failed self-marriage. --Deal, she says. We shake on it.
She leaves and I walk over to the piano, start punching on keys, playing. Play, laugh, cry, repeat. I can only bare 10 minutes of this sort of intimacy before I head upstairs to punch the computer keys. Write this silly story. Celebrate in my own way, my own day. Anticlimactic, imperfect, enough.
What's done is done. I'm married to myself. I think. It's official. I think. It was a small ceremony, 60 seconds long... no massive burnings of the past or major exchange of blingage, but it happened, damnit. Maybe it was just a whisper, but I stated, out loud, my intentions, my vows. I asked for support from the powers that be. I made a humble request for help... to stay connected, to stay in love with myself, to stay together... forever & ever, amen.
Time to honeymoon at Qualia Coffee. See you lovers on the flip side! ;)