La Meridionale Ballerina

Ah, a wedding.  A joyous occasion.  The "happiest day of your life." 

Unfortunately, with all that comes the actual planning of the wedding.

For me, so far, it’s been pretty fun.  The F (new nickname time!) and I spent a Saturday evening making engagement announcement cards by hand.  Contrary to popular belief, we had a ball.  The F especially liked that he got to play with the sealing wax for the envelopes.  We’ve been thumbing through some books and websites and toying around with ideas, most of which involve ways we think we can save money ("what do you think about toasting with water?"  "Think I can buy some silk sheets and sew a dress?" "You could totally draw some flowers on printer paper and make some invitations").

But the best part about planning is looking at what my dad likes to refer to ask "the underestimated power of bad taste."

Such as this idea for a heartfelt proposal:

http://www.partypop.com/Themes/ENGA0001.html

I wish I could make this stuff up, folks.  But no, you really did just read that someone popped the question while dressed as The Boy Who Never Grew Up.  Do I even need to touch on sexual implications of asking someone to be your "Wendy" (aka a "Mother" to you and your Lost Boys)?  Of the Oedipal complex surrounding this family and pulling in even the future father in law?  Of how disturbing it is that said future father in law could not convince his adult daughter to wear her "nightie"?

Maybe Peter Pan there really wishes he was Mary Martin…dressed as a boy.

In short, I’m confused.

But not as appalled as I am at this feature.

Yes, you can hire someone to write your thank you cards for you.  If that doesn’t smack of class, I don’t know what does.

Orsi and her roommate Lauren came down to visit!  Boy, let me tell you, between witnessing a woman having to spell out her words so her drawl could be understood to the infamous heat….I’m not sure they were all that impressed with Nashville.  But it sure was wonderful to have them around. 

I miss you already!  Please come back!

And everyone else out there, I’ve taken to cooking and cleaning in the evenings as entertainment.  This must stop!

Even my parents won’t visit for no other reason besides they’re lame.  You hear that mom?  You’re lame!  Who else am I supposed to filter through 8-pound bridal magazines with?!  Lame!

Ahem.

And now, pictures:

Orsi and me at the Hermitage, home of President Jackson.  That’s his garden and gravesite.  Orsi didn’t like it that the tour people kind of skimmed over the Trail of Tears part.  Oops.

Lauren, my hungry fiancé, and me eating catfish.  Look, we’re entertaining!  We have friends who come over!  I got over my noodling phobia long enough to eat Nashville’s famous dish.

Ug.  Me doing the obligatory SEGRF - Spastic Engaged Girl Ring Flash. 

Hey, I’m allowed one.  Humor me.

And come visit.  I have lots of magazines we can get started on.

The Boy and I are engaged!!!

Friday afternoon was spent on a gorgeous beach in the Bahamas.  Just before we left to get back on the ship, Matthew asked me to come look for seashells along the beach. 

I will not discuss here the fact that I was not in the most…affectionate of moods, since I had just disembarked from a Banana Boat and had endured 15 minutes of getting salt water sprayed directly into my contact-laden eyes (Oh, the burning).  I think my first reaction to his proposition to go seashell hunting was something like, "I can’t look for seashells since I can’t see."  Fortunately, I was convinced to "look with my feet."  Begrudgingly.

The beach is deserted since everyone is lined up to get back on the boats to get back on the ship (In fact, we are set to sail in less than an hour, a fact that elicited more protest from goody goody two shoes me.   Again, we will not discuss this here).  Matthew and I waded into the water and the next thing I know he’s kneeling. 

Of course, I think this is just great seashell hunting technique.  This understanding is reinforced when he finds a seashell within a minute. 

He hands it to me…and there’s a ring in it.

Then everything happens all at once.  He asks, "will you?"  I nod (I think), register that he slips the ring on my finger, and start to cry as a cruise employee yells at us to get out of the water so we can go back to the ship.  My knees are shaky and I can’t speak and I kind of hear him talking about his grandmother’s engagement ring.  I think I say something along the lines of, "I…seashells?"

And here’s the best part - I feel completely calm.  Not spastic, DeBeers girl screaming.  Just content and relaxed and excited. 

(Second best part: as we stood on the balcony of the ship, looking back at our beach, we remarked that we’d have to come back to the scene frequently to celebrate.  Upon further reflection, Matthew, always the romantic, said he knew he should have proposed at a baseball diamond.)

It’s perfect.

Long time, no blog!

The cruise countdown begins now…only two more days!  I am so ready.

Liar!  I don’t even have sunscreen yet!  I have to pack, I have to get over this stupid cold (my theory is it’s a result of the notorious middle Tennessee pollen count…stupid state).  But I am so ready to be on vacation.

One thing I did accomplish this weekend was purchase a bathing suit.  This task had been the source of much anxiety (again, very Cathy-like, as much as I hate to admit it).  Ballet class has been usurped by teeny, tiny teenagers off for the summer who do splits with their faces on their knees when they’re bored.

I hate them.

Point being, we’ve been a bit self-conscious as of late.

I have a swimsuit currently.  It was $14 on sale at Target.  It is the most boring black tankini you’ve ever seen.  The only detail on it is a pale pink stripe at the top of the bottoms (which are most unflatteringly low cut on the leg) that (ingenious design!) gets covered up by the top part.  It is a perfect hiding swimsuit.  This swimsuit makes me feel like I’m a 35 year old mother of three.

Which I am not.

So somehow, amist not being able to breathe or swallow because of said cold, I saundered into the local Water Water Everywhere with the goal of finding something slightly less matronly. 

Such as a bright turquoise bikini with a gold ring on the top, complete with gold beads dangling from the ring.  It screams "look at me!  Look at my stomach!  Ooh, there are my legs and my butt!  Look!  Look!  Look!"

So I did.  I looked in the mirror.  I tried on the other black (boring) suits I had brought into the dressing room with me.  I tried the turquoise one on again.  I acknowledged that it draws attention to my not-quite-runneth-over top, my a little-too-much-runneth-over middle, and the fact that my skin tone is barely a shade darker than printer paper.

And then I said, "screw it. I’m 24 years old, I’m going on vacation to the Carribean, I am buying this suit."

So I did.  Along with the matching, see-through sarong.

The price of saying screw it?  Oh, somewhere around $120.

Anxiety returned after paying ($120!!!?  There goes my money for eveningwear for the cruise formal nights!)  So I sat down with The Boy at home.

"Um, I bought a bathing suit."

"You did?  That’s great!"

"Yeah…"

"Go try it on!"

I come out in my screaming, turquoise, gold flashy dangling thing suit.  I am cringing, but I show The Boy.  

"Mmm…."

Cringe.

"You look like…"

Cringe.

"…a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model."

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I pay him the big bucks.  $120 in this case (though it did come with a matching sarong). 

Regardless, I’ll take it! 

My brother graduated high school on Tuesday.  Overall, it was a great trip home.  I got to hang out with the family, meet the new kids at work, and catch up with Orsi, A, and Kerin (hooray!!).

The only snag was a five-hour trip to the emergency room after my grandma took a spill (she’s fine; she just has a big cut on her leg.  It scares me how fragile older skin is - she barely bumped it and it ended up a huge scrape.  This is definitely the last time they come down for a visit).

But on to funny things.  Like my brother.

I love my brother dearly, but I worry for him.  He has the most pronounced case of selective hearing I’ve ever witnessed.  He typically has a set of headphones glued to his ears, which only exacerbates the problem.

Exhibit A: Asking my brother to take out the trash.

"Trey, can you take out the trash?"

(Silence)

"Trey, can you take out the trash?"

(Silence)

"TREY!"

"What?!?"

"CAN YOU TAKE OUT THE TRASH?!"

"Geez!  You don’t need to yell."

Recall, however, that I described this as selective hearing. 

Exhibit B: Immediately following asking my brother to take out the trash

*Muttering under the breath* "I swear, that kid is deaf…"

"I HEARD THAT!" 

As you would imagine, this selective hearing creates communication issues; hence, the worrying.  He tends to…not listen…when given instructions.  Like here:

Exhibit C: Discussing the location of prom

"Trey, where exactly is your prom?"

"Umm…oh, yeah.  It’s in Laytonsville.  At an Indian restaurant.  Off River Road."

"What?"

"An Indian restaurant off River Road!  Geez!  Don’t you listen?"

"This sheet says it’s at a hotel off Indian Lake Road in Gaithersburg."

"…..Oh."

Needless to say, there was some misunderstanding about who the graduation speaker was.  Trey told us it was going to be "some high school dropout" who was a "Jehovah’s witness."

Umm….his graduation speaker was the Surgeon General of the United States.

To my brother’s credit, the Surgeon General did not graduate high school.  After growing up in extreme poverty, he joined the military and obtained his GED.  After becoming a decorated Vietnam veteran, Vice Admiral Richard H. Carmona, M.D., M.P.H., F.A.C.S. went on to become a doctor and then the Surgeon General of the United States.

He gave a great speech about social responsibility and the need for cultural competence. 

* Sigh.* I’m sure my brother took away a great message about social respirators and the need for contests between religious cults. 

Yeah, I’ve been really quiet lately.  And if I post why, then I’m held accountable for it.

I think (*gulp*) I’m starting a novel.

That’s all I’ve been doing so far, really - thinking.  About plot, about characters, about possibilities.  But I’m tired of my "I’m letting experiences incubate so I can write about them when I’m ready" excuse.  Nope.  I’ve always written, I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I can’t be lazy about it.

Gosh darn it.

I am finding, however, that I am unbelievably rusty.  But my problem in writing has always been wanting things to be perfect the first time around.  I think my nearly a year with the "incubation" excuse has helped me get over that a little.  I started writing a bit the other night and it’s, frankly, awful.  But if I keep pushing through I can make it pretty when I go back.

Other predicament: where to write?  I need to find a quiet place without a lot of distractions.  This makes me miss UMD’s library.

Oh, want to know what it’s about?  I’ll give the typical author answer: a man searching for his identity but his identity is ultimately obvious to the reader, and the reader’s identity is infused with the character’s identity, and…you’ll just have to read it.

Ah, summer.  For my Buffalo-bred bones, the initial summer heat here is unbelievable.  We’re talking about some serious sweating just from taking a stroll.  Running in the park at lunch now results in a sopping shirt (sorry, I know that’s gross - just meant for illustration).  When outside, I seriously contemplate jumping into any body of water I see (ponds, streams, fountains) by evaluating the ratio of cooling down to looking like an idiot.  And it’s not even June.

I used to wonder how Nashville women kept cool and comfortable in 90+, insane humidity percentage weather.  The question has been answered.

Yes, this Memorial Day weekend (which we dubbed Carissa’s Weekend of Nashville Adventure and included a trip to the park, golfing, window shopping, and a trip to the zoo) we witnessed an elaborate fashion choice I have not seen since fourth grade jazz class.  Women everywhere we went had rolled up their shirt and tied it in a knot right under the front part of their bra.

I mean, everywhere.  The pregnant woman power walking in the park.  The middle-aged woman at the zoo cafe.  The woman in her late 60s at the giraffe exhibit.  Everywhere. 

So that’s how they stay cool!

I ‘m going to say this is a Southern thing because it reminds me, in my extremely limited knowledge of The Dukes of Hazzard (as in, I think it was a TV show - right? - and Jessica Simpson did a bunch of squats to be in the movie), of Daisy Duke.

I also know it’s not a look I feel confident about just yet.  I think I’ll have to break out my unitards first.       

So I tried to connect with the church girls again.  And yup, we’re throwing in the towel.

They’re nice and all.  Really nice.  And hanging out with them socially isn’t too painful, until I get nagged about being too old to land a man.

(Does this sound like they’re channeling the 18th century to anyone else?  Should I shine up my pattens?)

But I am really bothered by their internalized understanding of male/female relationships.  Sure, it’s to be expected that when a bunch of women get together they start complaining about their husbands (well, to me this doesn’t make sense.  If The Boy does something that bugs me, he’s the first to hear about it.  Usually through tickling).  That’s kind of a common thing, even though it doesn’t make sense to me because I think it doesn’t solve the problem, reinforces your inability to communicate with your male counterpart, and seems disloyal.  Getting advice is one thing, but you know what I’m talking about - this is a full-out whinefest.  "You know, Jimmy never does the dishes."  "Bob never picks up."  Blah, blah, blah. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve complained about The Boy to a few people - mostly his parents, who ask how he is about housework.  But I always try and explain that sure, The Boy can be messy, but we’re pretty good at meeting in the middle.  Okay, and last weekend I had to call him out when he claimed he cooked meals all the time.  Sorry, Matthew, but you can’t say making macaroni and cheese and eating it out of the pot is cooking.  You just can’t. 

(My dad always says he’s making lemonade when he adds some bottled lemon juice to his glass of ice water.  The same principle applies - no, dad, you’re not making lemonade.  You’re being gross.)

But back to my point - that’s a common, age-old occurrence.

What really bugs me is the internal understanding of male and female roles.  It is espoused (no pun intended) that men drive trucks.  Men fix things.  Men are manly men who don’t talk about feelings. Men are just big boys that need to be looked after.  Men don’t like babies.  Men are the protectors.  Men are the providers.  Men work.

Women, on the other hand, cook.  Women clean.  Women whine and complain and nag.  Women love babies and are nurturers.  Women want huge, nice houses and want to sit around all day not working.

Sure, some of that’s true sometimes.  Of course it is.

But not all the time.  That’s why they’re traditional, stereotypical roles.    

It’s really sad to hear both men and women fixate on these roles.  But they do.  The women in this group joke they aren’t "being good wives" because they haven’t cooked dinner in a while.  They complain about how they have to pick up after their husbands.  They talk about working to get a promotion to make extra money for a few months so they can quit and not work anymore (and those are the girls without kids).

I have no problem with these opinions or decisions, essentially.  Except they have to be conscious opinions and decisions.  Who knows?  I might want to stop working and stay at home once I have kids - I don’t have kids now and I won’t know how I feel about working until I have them.  But I have to make that decision because I want to stay home and I think it will make me the best person I can be (and, consequently, the best mother I can be).  It cannot be because I think doing otherwise makes me a bad person/terrible mother/horrible wife.

(Consequently, I think I’ve always been the type of person that is the best person I can be when I’m out doing things and learning and growing.  So working has always made sense to me.  Luckily, The Boy has expressed his desire to be a House Husband…mostly so he can mold our children into little sports fanatics.)

(That’s it.  I’m staying home.) 

I get the sneaking suspicion that these girls are buying into the latter. 

The funniest and saddest thing about this is that buying into that mentality actually makes marriage and relationships harder.  If you think about men as embodiments of traditional roles, all their actions fulfill those roles.  It’s a mental strategy that forces your brain to interpret the world in a way that always molds to your core understanding of the world so your world isn’t turned upside down when that core understanding is challenged.

I think having such a limited core understanding is detrimental to yourself and your relationship with men. 

You stop seeing men as individuals, with unique personality traits.  Nope, they all conform to the central image - they all like big trucks and having lots of tools.

But if you see people only for the symbols of themselves, you never see them for who they truly are.

The Boy knows little about "man things" like financial matters, fixing things, cars.  He’s sensitive, family-oriented, and loves kids. He loves Whitney Houston and Celine Dion, to the point where I have to tickle him to get him to stop singing in falsetto. 

On the other hand, I have my own (pink) tool set.  I read up on interest rates and investments all the time.  I have a soft spot for 60s rock and the dorky metal bands my dad loves. I’m secretly sacred of children (what to do?  Why are they crying?  Are they supposed to talk at 1 year or 2?)

This isn’t to say The Boy is effeminate - not at all.  And I am certainly not masculine.  But if we didn’t see those qualities in each other, we couldn’t appreciate each other, couldn’t know each other fully, and certainly couldn’t work as well as we do. 

No wonder your husband "doesn’t listen" - men aren’t supposed to.  No wonder he doesn’t help around the house - that’s women’s work.  No wonder you need to complain about him to everyone else and have huge fights - you’re not talking to him about what’s bothering you!

Is this little rant judgmental?  Probably.  Do I care?  A little.  But not really.  Because seeing this makes me realize two critical things:

a) This is why getting married before all your self-understanding is fully formed (which usually happens later rather than earlier) is a bad idea.

b) Good Lord, I need to go back to school. 

I love dancers.  But I have a soft spot for two types of dancers in particular: male dancers and newbies.

Now, before you get all accusatory on me, my soft spot for male dancers has nothing to do with attraction of any kind.  It’s more admiration.  Male dancers, but especially young male dancers, get so much flack for being dancers.  Imagine being in high school and having people know you take ballet classes?  Can you imagine how much teasing they must endure?  Truth be told, you must really, really love something to deal with all of that and not chicken out.  Thus, I assume, rightly or not, that male dancers must love ballet at least as much as I do, if not more.

Also, male dancers inherently jump higher than us ballerinas.  And that just looks awesome.  We had a visitor in our class demonstrate his grande jetés the other night.  This kid is 15 years old and has legs of pure muscle.  Just muscle.  He could literally jump over my head and stick the landing - at 15.  It was awesome to watch.  So watching male dancers gives you something to aspire to - my buddy Norman has started competitions with us girls in his class when we do changements.

I also love newbies.  Adult newbies are the best - they are so eager to learn, even when they start out intimidated.  A newbie in one of my classes was so scared to watch us at the barre and so confused when the teacher started dishing out random French words she tried to leave.  But when that happens we just flock around the newbie and start demonstrating - "no, see you’ll be fine - I just started learning again too.  This is first position, with your feet in a V…"  "See, she wants us to fondue, which means to melt - just like the cheese dip.  So that helps you visual the motion - you melt down into a deep bend, then stretch your legs out long and slowly like you’re pulling them apart…"

You can imagine our delight, then, when we got a male newbie on Monday.

This poor kid is trying to dance barefoot (ouch!), utterly confused.  He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how many steps to take before trying to jump, and he certainly couldn’t figure out how to bend one leg while keeping the other leg straight. 

We ate him up.

After class, all of us crowded around him: "you’re doing just fine, you’ll get the hang of it." "Don’t worry if it’s confusing, especially with all the French words - you’ll get used to it once you know what they mean." "Just watch everyone else to follow along."  "I have a video you can borrow to practice the positions."  "If you go online there’s a great dictionary of all the terms with videos demonstrating how they’re supposed to look."

It’s a great feeling, passing on the love.  I hope he comes back.

My intermediate ballet class with the S.E.A.L. has been canceled.  I am extraordinarily upset.

The begining ballet classes with the S.E.A.L. are packed to capacity.  If 4 people weren’t on vacation, we wouldn’t be able to fit the whole class in the room.  And our instruction already acts as an intermediate class - we’re working on complex adagios and jumping sequences.  There are at least 6 people in that class perfectly capable of keeping up with the S.E.A.L.’s intermediate class.  They may stink like me, but they could keep up.  However, these people refuse to move up to the harder class, resulting in our intermediate class having only two registered students and thus being canceled.

The reason for all this?  They’re all pansies.

Seriously.  If you’re scared of the S.E.A.L., and I know I am, you need to just plug your nose and jump in and wait for the pain to start.  But what is this hanging around in the beginning class? 

I know I took the plunge so I can eventually be in the advanced class, taught by whom I will dub The Master. 

If you think the S.E.A.L. sounds intimidating, The Master will kill you. 

We hear him conducting his class, literally shouting out orders (he sings instructions to the music - it’s terrifying and exhilerating at the same time).  Balances are for 32 counts - minimum (S.E.A.L.’s max is 16 counts).  Legs are at least 90 degrees, or you might as well keep it on the floor (you can get away with 60 degrees with the S.E.A.L., if she’s not looking).  What do you mean you’re not down in your split yet (I’m not)?  You’d better be down with your nose to the ground.  I’ve seen The Master make the company members (i.e. people who do this for a living) collapse after his jumping sequences.  They start off grande jeteing just fine, but after six minutes of continual leaping, they just kind of stop and walk to the side of the room.  He kept one member (who had the most gorgeous back I’ve ever seen, by the way) after class for 20 minutes practicing turns in succession.  She did not go off pointe for 20 minutes.

This, my friends, is The Master.  And he puts the S.E.A.L. to shame. 

Sure, this scary.  But if your goal isn’t to one day be killed by The Master, what’s the point?

I can’t wait for the summer session to start when I get to take all intermediate classes.

Pansies.