A year ago today, Bear and I got married. It was amazing. And then I threw up. But you all know that story.
A little over two weeks ago, Bear and I remembered, almost simultaneously, that it was going to be our 1 year anniversary. And Bear said, “Wait, I have this conference in Miami–”
And before I could get really nervous about coming up with a good gift and tell him “you just go then!” out of sheer avoidance, he said, “Maybe you should come with me? It probably won’t be romantic, though.”
“OK!” I said. Because I am really more into things that promise to be unromantic than things that are supposed to be romantic. And because I’d never been to Miami.
And here I am, in a hotel in South Beach, where they charge extra if you want to sit on one of the beach chairs. Bear is at his conference.
I feel lucky, being here. We tried to go jet-skiing, but it’s been raining hard almost nonstop since we arrived. Which is almost a relief, because I’m a little scared to jet-ski, even though I want to be able to say I did it. Last night, we went out for dinner, and I was really, really glad I brought that clingy gold-yellow dress and the velvety black stiletto boots. Even though no one was wearing boots because this is Miami. Because everyone was really sexy, and I was really sexy, too.
(sometimes I do this. It’s probably really irritating)
It was like every car that went by was a fancy sports car. I saw a woman who had the most incredible breasts in the world. It was like they were supporting her dress. And her boyfriend looked like he was already over it. How?? How could you ever be over that?
Earlier that day, before I pulled on the boots, we walked by the water, and I drank a mojito at an open-air bar, and then I felt very uninhibited and I dragged Bear in front of a Lamborghini that clearly was tired of waiting, calling, “You can just wait a little longer, mister! You think you’re so fancy!”
At which point, I spotted a Jewish museum, with a single security guard and a lone metal detector on the stoop. The security guard made me put my purse on a chair.
“Open the zipper part,” he said. “What’s that? What’s that other bag?”
“Those are tissues.”
“Don’t pull that out at me! Slowly– slowly. OK. Tissues. Now turn it. What’s on the other side? Is that a pouch? What’s that machine in there?”
“That’s a camera.”
“Don’t grab it! Move it so I can see.”
It was the most intense inspection ever, to get into this little, crumbling white stucco museum on a block full of old art deco hotels. And he hadn’t even gotten to Bear’s insulin pump, which really does look like a bomb.
I was laughing a little, but then I remembered that a guy named “Dave” left this comment on this very blog recently: “Filthy fucking kike, you are next in the oven bitch”
And I thought that maybe the security wasn’t the worst idea ever.
The Jewish Museum was both depressing and kind of nice.
But this chair was even better:
I feel like it should be a metaphor for something, but I can’t decide what yet.
It’s a tossup– if the women are skinnier in South Beach or Manhattan. I was thinking about it a lot, but couldn’t figure it out. And I still don’t have a gift for Bear. So I’m going to go write him a letter now.
What do I say about a year of marriage? I don’t know. It feels so normal. Sometimes it blows my mind, how normal it feels. “But you’re MARRIED,” my mind says, getting all dramatic. “Yeah, I know.” “But remember when you weren’t married? And marriage was the biggest deal in the world and you weren’t going to do it until you were 30?” “Yeah. But then I met Bear.” It’s crazy that I met Bear, but of course I married him.
I don’t know much, but I do know this: after I had that almost panic attack, I thought about what really mattered. And what really mattered was his face.
(That’s him trying on his tux for our wedding)
I’ll write a post tomorrow about the rest of it.
* * *
Unroast: Today I love the bottoms of my feet. They look tougher than they are.
P.S. Great post from my blogging friend Virginia, of Beauty Schooled, about cosmetic companies’ ad campaigns. They get to me, too.
22 Responses to “it probably won’t be romantic”