Bridesmaids: A disclaimer

34 weeks left
19 weeks completed
8 weeks left until mid-tour leave
0 pounds lost or gained (this is great news since last weekend I ate nothing but pasta and drank lots-o-wine at a weekend of wine tasting. This included indulging in a treat called the wine slushy…which is exactly what you think it is. I did however lose some inches this week because an old pair of jeans fits again. So, I consider that a plus. Yay!)
25 pounds total
14ish months until the wedding

I am blessed with having a large number of unbelievably good friends. Maybe it’s because I’m a talker who truly loves to become a part of people’s lives—hear their stories and share mine (anyone you ask will tell you that I am in fact an open book…and I never shut up.) Maybe it’s because I spend quite a bit of time trying very hard to keep up with the people I love—once you’re my close friend, I consider you my family, and I make it a priority to be involved with your life on a regular basis. Having lived lots of places with incredible people at each location, I have collected quite possibly the greatest cache of amazing personalities to fill my life. I consider myself absolutely blessed in this regard, and I love you all.

I have my small handful of friends from home, from high school, and from my time growing up. These are my oldest and my dearest. The ones that knew me before I was me…when I was still trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted to do with my life. I often wonder if we all met as adults if we would be friends at all. But in the time and place we existed, we were perfect. And that’s what I hold dear to me. Those friends I consider to be my forever friends, even though I see them far more rarely than I would like.

I have my girls from college- my ladies that came to me from different majors and times in my undergraduate career. We lived together. We grew together. We partied together. And the best part was that they weren’t in any of my classes. They were my totally biased girlfriends- not really knowing the others involved with my stories, and therefore deeming me always to be right. Unconditional support and breadbowl salads: Those girls got me through the hard times.

When I moved far away for my first job after college, I was blessed to have work-friends that became my best friends. But even more than that, I had my students who at the time were really only about 4 years younger than me. It’s been some of those students who, over the last ten years of my life, have developed into “grown up” friends. I helped them to grow and change, and by extension, they me. And any time you go through significant life experiences with someone, you get to carry that part along with you forever.

And then I moved to DC. And it was there that I met three women that become like my sisters… My urban family. I lived with one for two years (she has always been there for me unconditionally opening her home and heart and family.) I worked with one for two years (she seriously kept me sane at my job with her brilliance, her patience and her humor.) And one, believe it or not, I lived with AND worked with simultaneously (p.s. she and I are complete opposites in every way and we always marvel at the fact that we didn’t kill one another). From her, I gained the world’s most enthusiastic cheerleader and learned the importance of embracing our differences.

And finally, I moved here for grad school and ended up staying for this job. Here too I found an amazing group of friends. Some were in my classes—peers who were going through the same thing I was. Some were professors that shaped me, watched me grow, pushed me hard, and forced me to mature in ways I never thought possible. And now, some are my colleagues, people I work with and who support me in my current job and in my search for what’s next. And of course there is the handful of ladies (you know who you are), who are just here and awesome, and through mutual friends we have met and grown into girlfriends.

All of this is by way of saying that picking the bridesmaids for my wedding has so far been the biggest challenge of the planning process. I have been a bridesmaid or maid of honor in seven weddings. I have additionally sung in or read for 5 more. As J and I went to put together our wedding party, my first thought was: dear Lord, I am going to have to have 8 ladies stand up with me…and one guy.

But at the end of the day, I had to make a choice. And I gotta say, I have felt nothing but guilty about having to make this decision since I did it. There are so many I want to include…So many people I’ve been afraid to offend. I don’t want to hurt feelings. I don’t want to exclude. I don’t want to leave out. But I can’t have 9 attendants. I can’t even have 5 attendants. I can have three. And so I have chosen:

The woman who has been like my sister since we were born…essentially next door neighbors, sixteen days apart in age. I don’t even think about her as a friend, actually. She is my family. And as luck would have it (random ridiculous luck) she married someone with the same last name as J. We will, in fact, have the same last name—officially “sisters” after all these years. She has changed me in ways that I can’t even recount;

The woman who I met thirteen years ago…who has been my adult best friend, who shares my interests, my passions, my brain, and goodly portions of my heart. Through life, death, friendships, relationships, and births, she has *always* been the first person to call. Always. Unless she’s the first person physically on site with me, which is more often than not the case in both the best and most trying times in my life, and;

The woman who I met in grad school, who could read me like a book and who could talk me down from the crazy cliff. ..and always make me laugh. The woman going through the same stuff as me: crazy adult break-ups, adult relationship drama, writing a dissertation, losing sleep, feeling insane, and just making it through each day as best we could, together. She was the one I could call at 2 in the morning because I knew she was up too…and I knew she was feeling the same thing as me, probably at the same time. And most importantly, she was the one that convinced me that J and I were real, and good, and that even through my doubts, that all would be fine.

Those three ladies and their personalities are the ones I *need* with me on my wedding day: someone to read me like a book and anticipate what I need before I need it, without asking for it; someone who can keep me calm and focused, who knows my family and friends and all my quirks; and someone who can make me laugh and keep my grounded, who I’ll allow to take my phone away from me for the day, and field all calls without caring…who’ll talk me off the edge of the crazy cliff.

Someone asked me the other day if these three women were my best friends. This is the one time I hate the use of superlatives. I have lots of best friends, each from different times and places, and each of whom bring amazing and necessary personality traits to my life. These ladies are just the three that are standing up with me in matching dresses that day… the people who while waiting for the show to start, will keep me from losing my mind.

I want everyone to be involved. If you are invited to the wedding, that means I *want* you to be a part of the day-- wedding party or not. As for being involved in the day…be careful what you wish for friends. Odds are, I’m going to ask you to do something to help make the day special anyway: read something, sing something, guard a guest book, help seat friends, cut a cake. There are many parts to making a successful wedding. And it is my most sincere hope that people realize that bridesmaid is just one piece and that I love you all equally.

Calling it something else

Anti- opposed to; exerting energy in the opposite direction, or pursuing an opposite policy; one that is opposite in kind to; opposing or hostile to in opinion, sympathy, or practice; opposing in effect or activity

Bride: a woman just married or about to be married

The term “anti-bride” is a bit of a misnomer, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t know of any recently engaged women in the whole wide world who is (or can be by the definitions above) the OPPOSITE of, or OPPOSED to or even working ACTIVELY AGAINST almost being married. If you were opposed to getting married, you would have said no to the shiny bling on your ring finger there, sister. And so, by this logic, anyone who is engaged is a bride, and therefore cannot be an anti-bride (lest you have far more issues than I’ve the time or patience to discuss here.)

Now granted, I’m fully aware that some might say this logic is flawed. I’m also fully aware that when people say “anti bride” they don’t actually mean “one who is actively working against being married.” The common usage of the term anti-bride has evolved into something that quite frankly mostly refers to a bride who is not a high maintenance pain in the ass. Because somewhere in the very recent history of the world (I blame reality tv) being a bride automatically meant you were going to be a horrible, evil, unreasonable, demanding, self-centered, pretty-pink-princess who would much more likely be thrown down the aisle by her wedding party than walk down on her own two feet. And no one works toward actively being *that*.

And so anti-bride has come to mean actively working at not being a, well, high maintenance pain in the ass.

The term has always bothered me a little bit, but even so, I’ve often used it in describing myself. And that’s mostly because I am not now, nor do I plan in the foreseeable future ever to be a horrible, evil, unreasonable, demanding, self-centered, pretty-pink-princess (though the likelihood of my wedding party wanting to throw me down the aisle still clearly exists…just for other stuff.)

Wedding planning is complex. For so long people have been saying that it’s *my day* and that I should feel free to do whatever I want. I don’t buy that. That has always just sorta sounded to me like an excuse to be self-indulgent and self-centered. And it’s not all about me. It’s about my husband. It’s about our friends. It’s about our families. It’s about joining traditions and families and making our friends and families feel as officially joined as J and I will be. It’s not just all about what I want, it’s about what is going to make the day beautiful and sacred and amazing for everyone. If you *truly* didn’t care about anyone other than yourself, why would you have a wedding at all? I’ve often felt like having this sentiment-- this disinterest in being self-centered-- somehow made me a bad bride, an anti-bride.

I am not that girl, the fluffy one who’s been planning her wedding since she was a kid. I did not dress up in princess gowns. I did not imagine my life with a prince charming in a castle with a trusty steed. I own nothing pink (ok, that part’s not entirely true. But I hardly ever wear it.) Somewhere then, because these ideas of what a BRIDE is supposed to do and be didn’t really fit me, by default I became the “anti-bride.” But I gotta tell you, I’m not that guy either. We gotta call it something else.

Recently I was given a wedding planning binder by a friend of mine who had newly gotten hitched. She no longer needed it and decided to pass on its wisdom to me. It is called “The Anti-Bride’s Guide to Wedding Planning” or some such nonsense. I perused the pages of the kind gift, reading the chic and modern unusual wedding ideas. Annnnnd was inspired by nothing. I’m not really an outlandish bride, it turns out. I’m just not fluffy. There’s gotta be some in between.

Not long after that, another of my friends loaned me “The Offbeat Bride’s Guide to a Tulle-Free Wedding.” This book, while hilarious and well written ( I loved it, actually) wasn’t me either. I may not be a princess, but I’m also not having my wedding at a Burning Man event. (Though happily, I now know that should J and I decide to have a scuba diving wedding that the best way to accommodate our non-diving wedding guests is by renting a glass-bottomed boat and parking it *just* over-top the nuptials.)

I’ve been feeling like there must be a happy middle ground. I’m no Princess Di, but I’m also not planning on setting anything on fire sacrificially during the wedding (on purpose…). I have sorta seen the whole bride thing as being a continuum, with scuba-diving bride being a “1” and Cinderella being “10”. And I’ve been spending quite a bit of energy actively trying to figure out what “5” looks like. I just don’t want to be high maintenance. It’s not how I normally roll, and I can’t quite see how this event, even though a little more intense than most other life events, should change that about me. I don’t want to be too offbeat. I don’t want to be too princessy. I just want to be me, which has seemed a difficult category when talking about bridal-type things.

I guess I’ve been struggling to find my bride identity. (Even as I use the phrase “ my bride identity” I feel I’ve slipped closer to Bridezilla on the ol’ taking it all too seriously scale.) Somewhere resting comfortably between “stuff’s got to get done” and “the chic who only approaches you so that you’ll ask her questions about her wedding planning”-- that’s the sweet spot I’m looking for.

Yesterday, I received a gift, and an epiphany.

My friend JO sent me in the mail a wedding planning binder. Yes, that’s right friends. A shiny, new, info-filled, ziplock-pocket-for-storage-of-the-miscellaneous included, binder. In it, a note that said “I can’t imagine you of all people having a wedding that didn’t start first on paper, in color coded, alphabetized, all-in-one-place, organized fashion.” Office supplies for my wedding. Love at first sight.

I sat down, and as I read the pages, looked at the sections and fold outs and suggestions, it started to hit me. First there’s a lot to be done. Second, I can totally do it. And third, there is nothing wrong in my eyes with being *this* bride-- one that is on top of her game, informed, organized and prepared. These are things I can get behind. I am nothing if not a geek.

As I looked through the pages of this amazing binder (the best one I have seen out there on the market, for SURE) it classified brides in one of six different ways. Basically it was sorta like a bride quiz. “If you like THIS style of flowers, then you are a MODERN bride…if you like THIS style of dress then you are a ROMANTIC bride” etc., etc. And then once you sorta started to figure out what track you lived in there were planning suggestions that went along with (statements like, “If you’re thinking about this venue, then these flowers, with this sort of menu are a nice match.”) I was comforted in knowing that I actually *did* consistently, across the board, with every decision I had already made, fall into the same category. Evidently, I am a “classic” bride. This terminology, much better to me than just “BRIDE” or especially the “ANTI-BRIDE” fit me nicely and made me quite happy.

It was nice to know that there was actually a middle ground between princess and offbeat. I’m classic. And there are obviously others out there who feel similarly (or it wouldn’t be a whole section of the binder.) I’m not a weirdo. I’m classic. I’ll go ahead and be a classic bride: free of drama and demand, full of love for everyone (not just me) not too offbeat, not too traditional. Just classic. I’ll not be referring to myself as the anti-bride any longer. Not only does it not make sense, it clearly doesn’t really describe me. Finally my continuum “5”: Classic. I like it.

As I closed the binder last night, smile on my face, happy to have stumbled into my bride identity, I couldn’t stop singing Frank Sinatra. (Such a CLASSIC bride thing to do, don’t you think?) My wedding may not be crazy or fancy or uber romantic, but at the end of the day, I can truly and comfortably say, I faced it all and I stood tall… I did it my way. Classically.

Spirits

35 weeks left
18 weeks completed
9 weeks left until mid-tour leave
5 pounds lost (over the last two weeks)
25 pounds total
14th months until the wedding

When J left for Over There, there were several things we had on a checklist of things that needed done while he was gone. Make sure the bills are covered. Make sure his car goes to his dad so it can be cared for and driven, etc. And one of these “to-do’s” on my end was my promise to travel the 5 ½ hours to his apartment over the course of this summer to make sure that it was still standing—that none of his 27 televisions* had been stolen, and that no crazy pipes had burst, or animals had burrowed their way in and had babies in his bed, etc., etc., etc.

*Only slight exaggeration. He himself owns three, and then he has roommates, and other deployed members of his unit who needed a place to store stuff. Honestly, I think there are 5 or 6 tvs hanging out in his 700 square foot apartment right now. You basically trip over them when you enter.

Because he had the internet and cable turned off in his place (and I thought also the electricity) I knew that going up for the apartment check was gonna be a lame trip for me- one that might need to include an actual hotel stay. (I realize this is totally ridiculous, opting for a hotel room over a free stay in J’s apartment where I have stayed a million times before. But a big ol’ lonely completely haunted apartment without lights, food, internet or television really just didn’t sound appealing to me. I’ll own the fact that I am a “modern conveniences snob” in this instance.)

I knew I needed to make this trip, but I hadn’t decided the when and how. So I was very excited when some of J’s closest pals who live near him (and have been keeping an eye on the place off and on as well) invited me up for the weekend to do a little mini-vacay/ winery hopping. They are hoping to move from here soon, and so it seemed the perfect match of opportunity to see them one more time (with a place to stay, no less!) and to check on J’s apartment.

As I pulled out of my apartment yesterday for the drive up, my heart started to pound a little. This familiar trip has always ended in our reuniting…has always started the beginning of a wonderful week/ weekend/ month of our time together. My heart is conditioned to beat just a little faster as I get into the car, pop in the Gabe Dixon Band CD as my theme music (“Five more hours of highway, ‘til I’m in the place I love…”) and make the easy drive.

Wanna know what I found out? When J’s not at the other end, it’s really only a 5 ½ hour drive.

As I drove up to the apartment, my heart began pounding in my chest. I’m not sure why… it wasn’t like J was on the other side of the door. But excitement and anticipation of the familiar greeted me as I walked up the back steps onto the porch, turned the key in the back door lock and pushed hard to open the door.

What I saw as I opened the door made me laugh and cry at the same time.

His apartment was almost like a ghost town. Sure, there were no people there, but the place was left just as it had been when he was there. The apartment lay completely untouched since the last time I had visited. Everything was just as we had left it—Panini maker open on the counter; half a box of lasagna noodles left sitting there from when we made lasagna rolls; a bottle of Korean wine balancing precariously close to the edge of the bar. I swear, had the refrigerator doors not been propped open to expose the gutted insides, I would have truly believed there was still food in there. I’m amazed he remembered to take the trash out.

I walked into the bathroom—soap still in the shower, trash still in the basket, towels hung up like that I could grab a shower if I wanted. As I wandered from room to room, I was actually amazed to see the bed completely made up in J’s room- I honestly expected it to be half slept in, with the blankets turned down on one side, like that he had just rolled out of bed and gotten up and left, just like he was leaving on any old average morning for work. But the slippers askew by the bedroom door suggested a somewhat more hurried exit after making the bed, which seemed much more typical of him.

It was his favorite, disgustingly dirty and worn out sweatshirt tossed carelessly upon the bed that was my undoing. I could almost see the thought process: should he take it with? Was he wearing it up to the very minute he left and then took it off and threw it on the end of the bed so that it would be there waiting when he got back? My guess is that it had been hanging on the back of the couch in the living room and that he grabbed it at the last minute in an effort to “tidy up” the living room and just gave it a toss into the bedroom, and here it had landed.

I sat down on the end of the bed, grabbed his crappy old sweatshirt, and for the first time in quite a while had a very good long cry. I don’t know what I expected when I got to his place. Somewhere in my head, I thought he had “closed up shop” for his deployment. Would I have left the house super clean? Put all the laundry away? Closed all the closets and tossed all the soaps? I don’t guess I know. But I do know that I definitely did not expect this to be the scene. So ordinary and normal that I half expected him to come walking in the bedroom, like that he had just run out to the IGA for some bacon before breakfast.

I thought a lot about what happens when families loan out a member for a year to deployment and how hard it must be to stumble over the old sweatshirts every day. Such an unbelievably conspicuous hole it must leave in everything that you do. Somehow, with J living so far away from me most of the time, I had put the daily specifics of J’s life out of my mind. It’s been kinda abstract in that respect for me until now. This trip and that bloody sweatshirt made it really real.

J lives in apartments that are hundreds of years old and which were once upon a time barracks for soldiers. When he first moved in, I teased him constantly about his place being haunted (it totally is, by the way. I was teasing, yes…but I completely believe it to be true.) After having lived there for a little bit of time, he actually started jokingly referring to “the Private” who lived in his place. I liked this idea. Even if it meant he was living with a ghost (which freaks me out a little), I liked that he had a companion, someone he said “watched over the place for him” while he was gone. I of course have run with the joke…when we lose things, it’s the Private’s fault; when I burn breakfast, the Private was distracting me.

But I gotta say, sitting in the apartment yesterday, hugging that damned sweatshirt, there was no Private. The only energy, the only spirit in the ghost town apartment, belonged to J. And even though I had a good cry, the place was so unbelievably him-- so unbelievably, typically, every-day him, that it was the most comforting feeling in the entire world. He’s coming right back, just gone for a few minutes. See?

By the time I pulled shut the back door behind me, my tears were gone. They were replaced by a satisfied smile followed by a deep sigh of contentment. My spirits had been lifted by the mere essence of J and his obvious plan for his own imminent return. I could truly report back that all was as it should be with his apartment.

Nightmares

When my friend C was planning her wedding she used to always say things to me like “I’m freaking out.” or “I’m waking up in cold sweats.” or “Just elope now while you still want to get married.” or “I’m thinking a lot about killing myself.” I used to sort of chuckle at C, because, let’s be honest, C is no stranger to the concept of hyperbole (she and I have this in common.)

In my head when she would tell me these things, I would always think… silly girl, what could POSSIBLY stress her out this much? She is obviously overreacting. It’s a wedding not a…well, whatever is worse to plan than a wedding. This should be fun! This should be exciting! This should be easy, right? There are only, oh, I don’t know, 8oo thousand checklists of “things to accomplish before the wedding” available out there. Seriously, print one off the interweb, check the little boxes, and call it done. No big deal.

Alas. My comeuppance.

Last night, I had my first wedding planning nightmare. And this is not the figurative “Oh no, what a nightmare!” But the actual tossing turning sweating kind in the middle of the night when you wake up and look around making sure that it wasn’t real. Oh yes, last night was a restless night of bad wedding dreams. (C is laughing at me right now. It’s totally fine. I deserve it.)

Now, I want to go on record as saying that I have no anxiety about marriage…and absolutely NO anxiety about marrying J. I am *very* excited about both of these ideas. No, no, those are the things that SOME people might have wedding anxiety nightmares about. Actual important stuff. But not me! No, my anxiety dream was in two parts: I first dreamed that I forgot to make a hair appointment to do a “test run” of my wedding-do and so instead just walked into a random barber shop hours before the wedding and they shaved my head by accident. And mostly I was pissed because I’d just spent money on a veil that attached with a comb. So part one: cheap bald bride. Outstanding.

Part two: (this is post-middle-of-the-night-wake-up, look-around-the-room, trying to figure out what was going on. Yes, I ACTUALLY fell back into restless sleep/ bad wedding dream part deux) When we get to the wedding, we had accidentally hired some lunatic punk-ass teenager with a boom box to be our wedding deejay (because we found him on Craigslist) and he “forgot” to show up on time for the wedding reception. And when he did show, he was carrying hatboxes and a shoulder mounted stereo circa 1982 (strap and all) all the while smoking a doob filled with the wacky-tobaccy. And so somehow, while we were waiting for him to set up his “equipment”, I (in a complete panic) was trying to rustle up people at the wedding who could sing show tunes to keep everyone occupied (you might think this is the most outlandish part of the dream. It’s actually the most likely event to happen out of both dreams. Hell, I might just do it now for kicks. People will join in. You know who you are.)

The first thing I did this morning, literally the minute after opening my eyes and digesting these little gems was to text C to tell her that I had been inducted into the “Crazy Women Having Wedding Nightmares” club. She texted back in typical C form “Expect more. And they will get worse.” (Ah, the loving support of friends…) I was going to suggest to her that our little club get jackets, but let’s be honest, that’s way too much to be embroidered on the back of a jacket, and CWHWN does not make a good acronym.

I spent most of today trying to figure out where this anxiety came from, as it just seemed so random. I have actually been *off* the wedding planning in the last couple of weeks and hadn’t had any such thoughts cross my mind. So why now? And where was this coming from?

As with all things, I have a theory.

J and I are talking NON-stop right now about his mid-tour leave. We are making all sorts of plans for his ten-ish days at home and counting down the hours until we see one another again (approximately 1600, fyi.) And most of our plans are not fancy or special, but merely consist of just hanging out- just being. Sitting on the couch together having a drink, watching mindless tv in each other’s arms doing nothing. All the stories he hasn’t been able to tell me over the phone, I’m going to get to hear now. And yes, we have some dinner plans and some football plans and some seeing friends plans. But mostly we are just going to *be* together for as long as we can. The idea of non-thinking and only being with him is bliss. It’s what’s keeping me going right now.

However. From a purely time-line standpoint, there are several wedding type details that sorta have to be hammered out while he’s home and we’re together. There’s no getting around the fact that I can do much of this on my own and am glad to do it, but a handful of things have got to be done and discussed, and some major decisions made while he’s home.

I guess my greatest fear is this—I don’t want his leave to become about wedding planning. I don’t want our short time together to be spent doing deejay interviews and cake tastings. I don’t want to have tons of plans and appointments and things that we have to run around to and for. And I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s probably not on the top of his list of things to do in his short stint at home either.

I think in a way my subliminal nightmare anxiety was about what I was afraid might happen if we totally avoid the wedding-planning topic while he’s home. I’m going to end up bald with a stoned deejay singing show tunes at my own wedding (ok, so probably not. But you get the metaphor.) So maybe the best way to find the balance is by picking ONE day where we set aside x-number of hours and hammer out this wedding stuff, while safeguarding the rest of our time together to just be and not to think. I don’t want our actual wedding planning to become a REAL nightmare for us. But I think that overbooking our leave time together with too many details, (thus making the wedding seem like merely a “task” to be checked off the aforementioned interweb list that I was so ready to advocate) would be the biggest nightmare of all.

Even and Odd Years

36 weeks left
17 weeks completed
10 weeks left until mid-tour leave
? pounds lost (I’m traveling and don’t have access to scales)
20 pounds total
14th months until the wedding

(I haven’t posted in a week and a half! Pretend that this went up on Sunday like it should have. I have been staying with my best friend as she gives birth to her second child. I’m babysitting the 3 year old while she and her husband bring into the world a glorious new little boy. So…yeah, I’ve been, pretty busy and writing just hasn’t been on the daily schedule.)

Two of my favorite things in the world are pattern and logic. I’m as Type-A as it comes. I like things ordered and organized (and color-coded, and filed, and labeled, and possibly laminated as well, you know, if you have the time.) People have teased me before about having some OCD tendencies, and they are probably speaking truth (Remember a few posts ago when I told you that my nickname for a while was the Binder Bitch? Yeah. I earned that. The hard way.)

So yes. I like organization and categories and most of all, I love logic. A lot. I need things to *make sense*. If A then B. Above just about everything else, I am rational. True, I’m also emotional and flighty and silly on occasion as well, but my default position is absolutely one of rational thought: Weigh it out and come to a conclusion.

I understand that this crazy order/ structure/ logic mindset is kinda weird for someone who was trained as a jazz musician and a teacher. I was always led to believe that going with the flow, being adaptable and unpredictable and spontaneous was the only way to really be successful (and not lose your mind.) And I had a fairly easy going family—there was structure, for sure, but we all just sorta went with it for the most part. And I guess that, generally, I’m pretty easy going as well…like a good laugh, like to hang out and go with the flow.

But not with my stuff. My STUFF must be organized (true story…my bookshelves [oh yes, plural] aren’t organized by year or alphabetically like some folks’ might be, but rather by topic, from top shelf to bottom shelf by relevance to what I’m working on at a given time. Stuff I don’t need lives on the top and bottom shelves…stuff I need to grab all the time, right there in the middle. Logical. Practical.)

All of this backchat is by way of saying I like logic and organization and pattern. And I really like looking for patterns in the madness of my life in order to help make sense of things. One of the longest running pattern theories I have is the “Theory of Even and Odd Years.” (It is in fact, important enough to have this official must-be-capitalized-and-put-in-quotation-marks title.)

It goes a little something like this: Categorically, the even numbered years of my life have ROCKED. My 14^th, 16^th and 18^th birthdays were AMAZING (and by far my most memorable.) 30 was incredible. 22 I graduated from college. 26 I moved out to Washington DC, to start the most amazing adventure-chapter of my life all on my own in the big city. Even years have been good to me.

On the other side, 15 was the beginning of my debilitating migraine headaches. 17 was my first (and only) car accident (and consequent hospital stay.) My 21^st birthday, I had the flu and was so sick I couldn’t leave the house for days. I was 25 when my mother passed away. I was 29 when I left my beloved Washington DC to start a new scary part of my life.

So yeah, this whole even/ odd year theory has held true for a good long while. And I’m not sure whether or not it is a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I always secretly brace myself for odd years, and look forward to the evens because of it.

But it occurs to me that recently this pattern has started to change. And for one who likes pattern, this is a bit unsettling.

Consider this: 2005 was the year I met J (though to very little ceremony at the time…) 2009 was the year I both got engaged and graduated with my PhD. Those are pretty amazing once-in-a-lifetime events, wouldn’t you agree? Soo many of my friends had really rough 2009s. On New Year’s Eve, everyone said things like “here’s to a much better year in 2010!!” I remember thinking to myself (embarrassed to say it out loud)…um, I become a doctor, landed a sweet job, and got engaged this year. I’m not sure how 2010 is gonna top that. (And additionally, I’m getting MARRIED in 2011. MARR-IED (two words) in an odd year.) So odd years…not so bad, yes? (And yet, somehow this is still unsettling…)

And then began 2010. And let me just say this, regardless of its number, it has been an extraordinarily odd year for me.

First, J goes off to serve and we are without one another for one.whole.year. I think that’s probably sufficient enough to call 2010 rough…but let me continue. Next, I have only my second trip *ever* to the hospital. This is followed by ugly job happenings and financial uncertainty and suddenly trying to make jobs magically appear from nowhere. And most recently, one of my closest girlfriends has moved away (I’ll miss you K!) To say it’s been a scary and lonely year of uncertainty and change, is pretty accurate for me. ( I wonder how much of that is manufactured drama through deployment eyes? Hmmm…)

But here’s the thing. I started thinking about my friends. And 2010 has been *incredible* for my closest friends- folks putting houses on the market (finally!), friends buying houses and moving to new adventures, getting great new jobs, having babies, getting pregnant, getting married, getting engaged, finding love. Seriously, for the people I love the most in the world, 2010 has been a banner year.

So maybe, I just loaned out my amazing even-yeared good fortune to the people that I love (you’re welcome.) Or perhaps, at 30 I made the switch to the ODD years being the good ones. Or maybe, during this time of deployment when things were bound to be crap for me, just getting to tacitly, vicariously be involved in the joy of those I love is what will make this year a good one for me after all, even if I don’t personally have a new notch on my belt.

Of course, it’s possible that all this even/ odd year business is a load of hooey. But my logical, ordered mind would rather think that in a very karmic sort of way, the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, for me and for all my friends, are going to eventually balance out, and become even for us all in the end. And that makes the oddness of this year, a little more bearable.