Eat the Damn Cake

You know that moment in the movie where the nerd girl takes off her glasses and pulls down her ponytail and steps into a fitted, sparkly dress? She is transformed. She timidly makes her way down the stairs, and the guy at the bottom stares up, open-mouthed, seeing her as though for the very first time. Who is this sudden goddess? It is probably Aphrodite.

That has never happened to me.

Not even close.

Actually, when I was trying on wedding gowns at Macy’s, I was a little surprised at the extent to which that didn’t happen. The saleswoman was pretty sure it would.

“If you need to cry, just do it,” she said. “It’s overwhelming, seeing yourself like this for the first time.”

I blinked hard. I looked at myself in the mirror. I leaned forward, gazing deeply, cushioned by billows of shimmering white gown. It was true. One of my eyebrows really was a little higher up than the other. Weird. And my face looked saggy. Saggy? Seriously? I was twenty-four! How was this possible? The face did not match the gown. I looked stupid.

“It’s OK,” said the saleswoman. “I know it can be very emotional.”

“Can you get me out of this dress, please?” I said.

I do not clean up good. Well. I do not clean up well. I do not transition smoothly into a fairy princess. Instead, in fancy clothes, I look a little confused– like my hair didn’t get the memo. Like my face wasn’t made for elegant parties. Like I should work on my posture. In other words, I look like myself– but wearing something nicer.

It’s disappointing. Some women (including many of my friends) are full of womanly mystery. In their street clothes, they are lovely, but their loveliness hints at some greater potential. They might spring into full stunning gorgeousness at any moment, given the right shoulder-baring dress, eye makeup, and hair stylist. Not me. What you see is definitely what you get. And what you get looks like it should be wearing overalls with paint splatters on them.

(oooh, sexy…)

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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.

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I meant to write a post today, but then I got too excited.

Because I’m on A Practical Wedding! CLICK HERE! Thank you to all of the readers of this blog who kept suggesting that I submit something. You guys know what’s best for me.

I did not act particularly bridal during the wedding planning process (which you can read a summary of here). I never shrieked and jumped up and down. And I’m resisting the urge now. But the urge is definitely there.

And I am also in The Forward, with a piece about growing up both Jewish and homeschooled (so, like, weirder than everyone else). CLICK HERE! This is my first newspaper piece (The Star Ledger published a letter to the editor of mine, and actually changed my words. In ways that made me sound like I might not be incredibly literate. We’re not on speaking terms and they don’t count).

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Bear and I got married nine months ago. Not to the day, or anything. I’ve never been like that.

Sometimes I feel a little like a wedding veteran, when people are talking about planning one. They always sound so young and ambitious, and I lean back in my chair, fold my hands over my belly, and say, “Alright now…Alright now, kid…But let’s just slow it down for a minute, here…”

No, I would never say that.

But I feel like I learned a lot from planning a wedding. And I realized suddenly that I never really took the time to write a post that summed up my experience into a neat little post with a moral at the end and a set of convenient bullet points for reference. And I’m a blogger, so that’s sort of unforgivable.

Instead, after I got married, I was really excited to not have to think about weddings ever again. A few months ago, I clicked on some fluff piece called something like “The Post Wedding Blues: Are You Feeling Depressed and Down During Your First Months of Marriage? It May Be Because All That Wedding Excitement is Over!”

I was like, “Wait, what? Are you kidding me? THIS is the good part.”

But sometimes I think I’m too hard on my wedding. It was a great day. I wore a stunning gown. I still remember exactly how Bear looked, and how he looked at me.

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One of the best parts of having really short hair is that I look a little like a boy. This was something I was nervous about, when I thought about cutting my hair. I thought, “What if I look a little like a boy? I can’t let that happen. What if someone thinks I’m a boy? What if someone calls me ‘sir’? Then my life will probably be over.”

But a surprising thing happened when I cut my hair. I stopped caring so much about looking like a girl. Maybe it’s all the fussing that long hair demands. I stopped looking in the mirror as much, because I didn’t have to check and make sure my hair was OK. Because it’s always pretty much the same.

Since I already look so different, something in me that was constantly competing to look just as good as or better than other women shut off. It’s like I removed my name from the roster. And when the guy who runs the world is calling out, “Potentially beautiful, sexy women: Molly Aacker! Christina Abbens! Tianna Abbey! Jessica Alba! Jennifer Aniston!” He will never get to my name, because I’m  not even there. My name was scratched out and replaced by one of those smiley faces with the tongue sticking out.

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Here it is. (Some of) my wedding in pictures.

This is me in the bridal chamber, at the end of getting ready, when I started to feel overwhelmed at an entirely new level.

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