Alcohol, my permanent accessory

6 Sep

Why, yes, that title is a Barenaked Ladies reference, thanks for noticing! My high school bf bought me a 4 CD box set once when I couldn’t make a concert. He was good at that sorta thing. At the time, I didn’t drink and thought the lyric somewhat degenerate, but once I started imbibing, at the end of my sophomore year in college, I totally got it. Now, I’m constantly finding ways to incorporate drinking into innocent, every day activities. Such as:

“Tropical Tuesdays”- combining daiquiris and…Tuesdays
“Merlot & Movies” – when we smuggle boxed wine into the theater. Works best during Woody Allen films or anything featuring Nicholas Cage
“Train Tipples” – for those interminably long rides to see our parents
“Shopping Shots” – because buying groceries is just not fun

We love these motifs so much that we’ve decided to center our entire wedding around them. We’re getting married at an all-inclusive resort where guests will be encouraged to experience every aspect of our weekend under the influence of Presidente Lite. This way, I won’t have to feel insecure that people travelled from far lands and spent a considerable amount of sick days to celebrate me. I’m terrible with attention. Birthdays cause all kinds of anxiety. I feel guilty when people are abundantly nice to me for specified periods of time. This is one of the biggest factors contributing to why I put off planning a wedding for so long. The idea of spending an entire day with all eyes on me (and my fiancé, for those who glance at the groom), feels like all of the neurosis of my birthdays combined. Except, everyone gets to have a birthday. This time, people will be celebrating the fact that I’ve found someone to share my life with, which is less common and therefore makes me feel even less worthy. And that is why all attendees will be drunk at my wedding.

I suspect I’m sounding a pinch like an alcoholic. I’m not (though I have been told over cocktails with my mom that it does run in my family). I was late to the whole drinking revolution. While other kids in high school were raging at house parties, I was getting a good night’s rest for the next morning’s debate tournament. I was a Peer Drug Educator, which meant I took a vow not to partake in any illicit substances, however all of my beaus enjoyed recreational marijuana use so I was treated to the occasional contact high.

I was happy sober so long as everyone around me was sufficiently buzzed – this way I never had to be concerned about whether or not I was fun enough for them. I was able to stay on top of my faculties and savor every moment, while I watched my pals get progressively plotzed. This is more or less how I’ll treat my wedding. To my closest friends and select family members who haven’t seen me since I’ve grown boobs, I’ll be a blur of twinkle lights and white. And they’ll all have the best night they’ll barely remember.


The Hunger Games (But Not Really)

5 Sep

My fiancé (let’s call him Ben, because that’s his real name) and I seldom fight but when he do it’s hideous and cruel. I assault his character, in shrill tones, and he runs away. Literally. He scampers across the street like an ashamed terrier who thinks I’ll forget he peed in my shoe if he changes location. In turn, I scream that he’s weak so that everyone can hear, but this is NY so we’re not interesting. In the six years we’ve been dating, we haven’t argued about anything that couldn’t be solved by him turning off the Yankees game. He’s never done anything wrongful. But, when we do get all emo, it’s for one reason: hunger, which is often combined with a happy hour cocktail consumed instead of dinner.

I have a distorted relationship with food. I simultaneously love and loathe being famished. Craving ethnic-y stuffs followed by satisfying that urge is my all-time favorite feeling. What I hate is the imminent depression that follows gorging and knowing that I won’t get that meal back again. As a result, when I find myself peckish, I tend to pleasure delay for entirely too long, transforming me from a (relatively) grounded girl, to a maniac, fiendishly texting friends for help out of my relationship while weeping in the nearest Urban Outfitters. After several hours, and threats to break our lease, our blood bath will end with the chime of the doorbell. Our savior? The delivery boy brandishing french fries and omelets and usually a Reuben for him. After the first bite, Ben and I will start to giggle, feeling so silly that our hunger ever let us get here. Then, he’ll put on Bravo, just for me, and just like that, our vitriol is gone with our famish.

Chubby Jeans

29 Aug

Yesterday I bought jeans to “grow into.” This encompasses one of the best and worst things about being engaged. On the one side is my complete security. The other? I’m actively giving up on the hope that I’ll fit into the jeans I purchased before I was betrothed. I think most of us grow when a diamond is placed on our ring fingers. Some call it “happy weight,” others refer to it as the “honeymooning phase” when you’re finally comfortable enough with your someone to give up on being demure and begin competitive gorging. I think our bodies go into hibernation during the period immediately after getting bejeweled and before setting a wedding date. Physiologically, they know that they’ll be starved within two inches of their lives once the Save the Date is mailed so they begin to protect themselves. I started carbo-loading weeks after I met my fiancé, probably around the time I threw up on him and saw that he was totally cool with it. Six years later, I am now the proud owner of my first pair of pre-mediated “fat jeans,”  because why shouldn’t I feel as loose as I am in my relationship? It should be noted that my cohort, coached by an impossibly hip homosexual, purchased his inaugural pair of skinny jeans that day. I guess he’s having his “bridal moment.”