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March 2010

The Girl I Almost Married

{This forgotten gem by Tiffany (‘Could’ve Been’ – her second of two hits) wasn’t out until the end of the following recollection, but it’s a reminder of my childhood, and seems fitting here – ignore the cheesy video and just listen to the music – not that that isn’t cheesy in and of itself, but you get the idea – and it was the 80’s after all…}

Her name was Rachael. We met in Mrs. Green’s first grade class at R.J. McNulty Elementary School. She had beautiful naturally-blonde hair that was always shiny and clean. She wore matching clothes that must have been selected by her Mom (as mine were). We sat together at lunch, where she introduced me to the revelation of sour-cream-and-onion potato ships. She always gave me the cheese off her pizza too. (For some reason I hadn’t yet acquired a taste for pizza, just the cheese.) We were inseparable at recess and anytime the class was free to choose partners or scatter into groups. I think Rachael was the first girl who had a crush on me, and like many of my crushes, I was completely oblivious.

She had a neighbor, Ryan, who liked her a lot, and likely in that way. They had grown up together (well, if you call getting to age nine growing up…) and naturally he hated that I had won her attention, and therefore hated me. (I guess he was the first in a long line of people who would come to hate me, and I dealt with him as I’ve dealt with them all – a blind eye and a disdainful dismissal to disguise a puzzled hurt.)

I think it was during the summer after first grade that we decided to get married. We were playing at her house and it just seemed like the thing to do. Her sister would act as maid-of-honor, and Ryan, well, while I couldn’t have him as my best man, he could act as a witness (much to his chagrin). The side yard would serve as the location, beneath a vine-covered arbor. We were this close to actually going through with it (at least as close as almost-second-graders can get to being married) but for some reason we both paused and decided to wait. Oddly enough, it didn’t change our friendship.

It was adolescence that did that, and the inevitable way that most boys and girls have to stop being friends after and before a certain age, lest anyone think they “liked” each other (the bane of a boy’s existence, and the number one way to insult or embarrass someone). For that reason alone, I lost, or pretended to lose, many of my best friends who happened to be girls. (How odd that back then I was trying to hide my relationship with a girl while flaunting my friendships with boys.)

But Rachael was undaunted, and we went out to Pizza Hut and High Rollers (again, it was the 80’s and roller skating was big). I was terrified that people would see us together, and at the same time scared to hurt her by saying no, so these outings were stressful on just about every level, save for the fact that she always seemed to enjoy them, and was agreeable to everything.

I played ‘Material Girl’ for her in the car as my Mom drove us to the Amsterdam Mall. (A word of advice for girls hoping to find boyfriends: if he plays Madonna (or Lady Gaga for instance) he could be your best friend, but he’ll probably never be a boyfriend.) Alas, we didn’t know that then.

She was the first of a few select girls who liked me more than I could ever like her back, and for that she will always be dear to my heart. Rachael saw something in me that was worth loving, and because she was so sweet and kind, it made me think I might actually be worthy of such love. That I could not return it fully must have wounded her deeply, as deeply as it did me.

By seventh grade, we had left McNulty behind, and with it our withered romance. Things were getting messy in our adolescence, and girls still weren’t supposed to hang out with boys unless they were dating. There was a guy in my Home Economics class (does such a class even exist anymore?) whose name was Chad. He was one of the first friends I had at Wilbur H. Lynch Middle School and he was, well, a bit of a dork. Not in the smart, nerdy, one-day-he’ll-make-millions kind of dork, just a bit of an awkward not-quite-teen whom I treated rather poorly (despite the fact that he was two times taller than me). That first week in class he confided that he liked a girl who came from McNulty, and he told me her name was Rachael. I smiled to myself, then told him he should ask her out. We always want the ones who don’t want us.

It was a few months later, I think, that Rachael and her family moved away to Florida, and I never heard from her again until yesterday when she found me through FaceBook (the modern-day detective service for lost loves). She said she wasn’t sure I’d remember her, but I did immediately. It looks like she has three beautiful children and a happy, loving family life.

Rachael, if you’re reading this, I just want to thank you for being so kind to me for all those years. Even when I didn’t deserve it (and couldn’t possibly see what it was you liked in me) you never treated me badly. I didn’t know what to do with it then – and in many ways I still don’t – but you showed me how it was never a waste to get closer to somebody, that girls can and should ask out boys, and how tasting a sour-cream-and-onion potato chip for the first time can be a life-changing experience.

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License to Wed

Andy and I spent a long weekend in Boston, MA, where we applied for our wedding license. En route to the paperwork, we passed by this auspicious sign:

Neither of us was quite sure what to expect as far as obtaining a wedding license went, particularly as we approached the monolithic cement structure of City Hall. I’ve passed it a zillion times but never entered.

We made our way to the Marriage counter, where we stood in line behind a friendly lesbian couple from New York City. (The state of New York ended up losing out on $100. in paperwork during the brief five minutes of our application process, which we were all too happy to give to a neighboring state that supports our right to marry.)

After the quick and painless procedure, we made our way to Quincy Market for lunch.

The snowdrops were just beginning to bloom, and we managed to avoid rain for the entire day and night.

To celebrate, we had dinner at the Top of the Hub. Neither of us had ever been to this Boston mainstay, but it was well worth the unintentional wait, and after sampling what they had to offer, we agreed that it would be an ideal location for our wedding rehearsal dinner. I started off with the Level 52 (a martini named for the restaurant’s location on the 52nd floor of the Prudential Building, and its use of Level vodka).

Shortly after we were seated, a couple sat down at the table next to us. The girl was nicely turned out in a simple black dress, and a silver peace-sign ring on one hand betraying her age. Her companion was in a rumpled dress shirt one size too big for him, and hair in need of a little more product. I looked at Andy and asked, “Are these two people…”

“Twelve?” he finished.

Okay, they weren’t twelve, but they were not a day over eighteen years old. However, they were very well behaved, and I found it reassuring when the girl unabashedly ate three pieces of bread slathered in butter – date be damned.

On the other side of our table was a couple from Austria, who began with champagne and then had their red wine decanted by candlelight. (Among the three tables, there were three distinct levels of sophistication – and we were right smack dib in the middle.) As we finished up our dinner (swordfish for me, seared tuna for Andy), the waiter asked if we were celebrating any special event and we explained that we had just registered for our wedding license. He congratulated us both and returned with our dessert menus.

In what may have been the sweetest and most hopeful moment of the evening, the young woman next to us looked our way and offered her congratulations.

“Well, we’ve been together for nine years, so it’s really just a formality,” I said. “But thank you.”

“Even so, that’s great,” her companion said. Andy and I thanked them again.

High above Boston, the future sounded bright and simple in the eyes of a couple of kids half my age, whose poise and grace and unquestioning acceptance moved me immensely, and whose silly jewelry and wrinkled shirt would be ironed out in the next few years.

On the way out, one of my favorite flowers, the gloriosa lily, stood in a tall vase before the elevators as Andy got our coats. A glorious ending to a perfect weekend.

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A Silk Dressing Gown/ A Defense of Fashion

I’m not usually a fan of vintage clothing (I can’t stand the smell), but once in a while I’ll delve into the second-hand shops and see what I can find. This has resulted in the acquisition of a favorite kimono from Chicago, a Jean Paul Gaultier denim jacket from Boston, and an infamous corset from San Francisco.

I was also given the beautiful vintage silk dressing gown in these photos from my friend Rob. I take it out when I need a day of decadence, and with the house-bound weather we’ve had of late, it was definitely that time. Coupled with a book, a cup of green tea, and a comfy conversation couch covered in fluffy pillows and a thick, plush blanket, it is a moment of self-indulgence. I know some may dismiss my obsession with robes and clothing as silly, so if this is you, please move on to another site.

There are a number of my friends who don’t understand my love of fashion, or why it means so much to me, and I guess when you look at it in comparison with devastating earthquakes, impending tsunamis, or even a killer killer whale, it may seem frivolous and superficial.

That said, there is a deep, profound effect that fashion can have on the world, and for me it’s the same way that beauty and art will always be an important and necessary part of humanity. It can be a brush with the sublime, and it moves me more than I could ever fully convey.

It’s just as valid as any other hobby or passion, if not more-so. It’s the way we present ourselves to the world, and a direct correlation to the respect we give to other people. Far from being a  self-centered, self-serving obsession, it’s exactly what we think those around us deserve to see. If you go around in sweats and ripped T-shirts, you must not care enough about your fellow human beings to put any effort into what they are seeing.

At its simplest, wearing something decent makes me want to be a better person. It’s something I do to impress others, to make an impact, to show that I am willing to put an effort into my appearance – and I do it as much for other people as I do for myself.

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