Monday, December 15, 2008

I am not your ordinary girl…

… in fact, it might be more appropriate to call me a grrrrl (with lots of grrr).

You don’t believe me? Consider these facts:

You will never see me with a designer purse or ever hear me talk about wanting a designer purse, or any purse. I do not understand women who carry diaper-bag sized purses--WTH do they have in there? I have one (not designer—just a purse.) I bought it over 10 years ago. It is very small. I only carry it when I have to. Actually, this is a small lie. I have 3. The one that I use, mentioned here. One that I bought to carry my gargantuan camera and one that my MIL gave me that reminds me a little of those wiener dogs(without the legs).

You will not hear me talk about shoes. . . and you will not see me wearing stiletto heels (even though maybe I should, because I am quite short.)

I never wear make-up…well, hardly ever. Occasionally I do, if I go out—and by out I do not mean to the grocery store or the park, but maybe to a birthday party or a girls’ night out or if I host a social gathering.

I do not paint my nails or dream of a good mani/pedi.

Don’t give me flowers as a gift. That is a gift that requires virtually no thought… and they die!

(By this time I have lost most women, I am sure you don’t relate… but there is more!)

I do not own or desire expensive jewelry. My wedding ring is just a gold band. I didn’t want a diamond. (I saw a documentary once about 1) how diamonds had been so successfully linked to love and sentiment through aggressive propaganda and 2) how diamond companies have vaults of diamonds so that they can control the price—sorry De Beers (I had sworn it was de Biers), I don’t like to be manipulated by marketing.)

I do not believe in marriage proposals… you know where the girls waits and waits, pretending she doesn’t care… and waits some more, crossing her fingers, hoping the guy will pop the question… and then she bites into the ring that he slipped into her chocolate mousse when she went to powder her nose. Tears spring to her eyes, she can’t believe her luck. She says “yes! yes! a million times yes” and then calls all of her friends and family to share the good news: “He finally proposed!” One word: “GAG.”

I was not a little girl who dreamed of the perfect wedding. In fact, for a long time I didn’t think I wanted to get married. When it finally became clear that, yes, I would be marrying, I had ZERO interest in browsing wedding magazines, choosing wedding colors, floral centerpieces, dinner entrees, bridesmaid dresses, etc. An open bar would have been nice, however. My husband and I got married at the Justice of the Peace and then had lunch at Olive Garden, because my mom thinks that OG is the perfect end to every social event.

My dress? red velvet. I did not want to wear a white dress symbolizing purity.

Who gave me away? Are you freaking kidding me? I will not be “given away”—
passed from one man’s possession to another's.

(These are traditions that should have died with the dowry [no, I did not come with sheep, pigs, cows, or linens of any kind] and the hanging of the sheets after the wedding night as proof to your back-a$$ward neighbors that your beloved son married a virgin.)

Thanks, but no thanks!

I can never decide if all this makes me low maintenance or super-duper high maintenance.

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