I’ll admit it; I’ve been taking a pretty “blah” view of my impending nuptials. Not “blah” like “this is going to suck,” but “blah” like “Oh, I’m getting married. ‘Kay.” My chronic bitchface has always extended to no-selling major events in my life. When I was accepted into the National Honor Society I forgot to tell my family until two days before the induction ceremony. My response to The Fiance popping the question in the first place was a slight nod and an even-toned “Yes.”
Then I picked up my wedding dress (lovingly donated by my sweet friend Jill), and shit got real.
I’m getting married.
If you don’t know me in person, then you don’t know that I’m approximately 200% the last person you’d expect to ever find companionship with another human being. It isn’t that I don’t like people — okay, I don’t, but I can at least tolerate them — it’s that they scare the Hell out of me, causing me to go into socially maladjusted nerd mode, and that is why I’m really bad at phone interviews. I may be constantly coming up with new, exciting ideas on how to improve things in the gaming realm and unusual directions to wander off in, but when it comes to my personal life, I am set further in my ways than any octogenarian you can throw at me. I am the embodiment of a bachelorette, with the somewhat conflicting desire to not die alone and be eaten by cats. As a great poet of our generation once said, “I’m a walking contradiction.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely not having second thoughts. To begin with, I actually love the son of a bitch (note to self: stop referring to future husband as “son of a bitch” even when doing so endearingly), and it’s rare to find anyone who’s not only willing but able to put up with my shit so well. It probably has to do with our both being creative types and thus having a better than average understanding of where the other is coming from, something I’m incredibly grateful for because nine times out of ten I have no idea of what I’m doing when communicating with other people. But I am coming to the realization that there’s going to be a lot of changes around these parts, beyond our upcoming move to Irvine.
- No more farting freely. Look, I’m going to clear up a myth here: girls fart, and usually in an even more epic manner than dudes. We are secretly capable of being just as if not more disgusting than any man alive. Need proof? Go into a public women’s restroom. There is actually five times as much pee on the seats as there is in the guys’ bathroom and considering we have the melee range advantage I don’t even understand how this happens. So yes, I walk around the house lighting them off whenever I damn well please because at this point in time, nobody is around to care. When The Fiance and I spend time together, I’ve usually got my ass clenched so tight you could shove a lump of coal up there and have a diamond in a couple of hours, using the time-honored tradition of disguising any gas that absolutely MUST escape with an opportune cough. We are going to be spending every day together from here on out. I may as well just move out onto the balcony.
- My wardrobe needs to change. Not to be “sexier” or “more flattering,” because it is absolute bullshit to do anything to your physical appearance just to please your significant other. If they’re so shallow that they’re going to complain about your wearing jeans and a T-shirt versus a corset and mini-skirt, then they’re dicks, and you should just move on to someone who actually loves you for reasons other than how hot your boobies look. But I do need to shift the balance in my wardrobe from a 60-40 split between pajamas and regular clothes, respectively. I own three pairs of jeans. I own eight pairs of yoga pants. If I even bother to get fully dressed then it’s a small miracle. Why should I? It’s just me. I’m not a huge party girl, I’m too broke to shop, and I’m currently unemployed, so where am I going to go, besides the farting balcony? Which brings me to my next point.
- I have to actually be social. Remember when I said I’m not a party girl? That doesn’t mean I won’t raise a glass and have fun at, say, a company party or something, but I’m at my happiest on a Friday night when I’m cuddled up in my fluffy purple blanket, playing videogames or reading a book or writing or doing something else that does not involve me putting on pants. But now I have another person in my life, and said person is not necessarily going to want to sit on opposite ends of the living room every night ignoring each other for our respective single-person entertainment choices. He enjoys going to the movies, an activity which absolutely baffles me (I love movies, but why the Hell am I going to pay $10 to $15 to sit in a smelly theater with random strangers kicking the seat and talking through the movie? Bonus “screw this” points if it’s in 3D, because 3D gives me a migraine), and if I want to be fair, I’ve got to stop being so ornery and be willing to say “Sure, babe, let’s go on a date!”
- I must, must, MUST learn to be nicer. I’ve always prided myself on being “one of the bros.” This is great when hanging out with friends, but I’m still trying to learn how to turn off the tough love thing with regards to The Fiance. For example, the other day we were heading out to get lunch, and it was a bit chilly, so he asked me if I wanted to go back inside and grab a jacket. Before I could stop myself, I said “Nah, I don’t need a jacket, I’m a man” and punched him in the arm. There was this moment of really awkward silence as we both comprehended what had just happened and in the end, yes, I did put on a hoodie, and we never spoke of it again.
- I have to feed him. Well, no, I don’t, because it’s an equal relationship, but you know what I mean. If it’s my turn to make dinner, that means I actually have to do it rather than what I usually do, which is get so involved in writing that I finally look at the clock around 8 p.m. and realize I haven’t eaten anything all day but have consumed several pots of tea. I can pretty much guarantee that two weeks after my hire date they’ll find me dead of starvation at my desk, slumped over the keyboard with like six empty mugs around me. Now there is another human being who will potentially starve to death along with me.
- My sleeping etiquette needs to improve, stat. I love sleeping next to him — I’m usually at anemic levels of frigid, and he generates a shocking amount of body heat for a skinny dude — but man, there is something to be said about being able to cocoon yourself in three layers of blankets like some kind of comfort burrito and sleep at a 45-degree angle across the entire bed. Somewhat related, I tend to flail around in my sleep for unknown reasons and accidentally punch him in the face. I am still trying to figure out how he sleeps through this. I also need to not throw shoes at him when he tries to wake me up early.
I’d say he’s a saint for putting up with me, but he’s an Atheist and likes to remind me that there are no such things as saints.