Tonight I went to the baby shower of my college friend, V. We were college roommates more than once and office-mates in our early years out of college when we lived and worked in Boston. As us party-goers sat around talking and holding the week old little boy of our friend, B, the subject of names came up. B was sharing that she and her husband had had boy and girl names picked out each of their children, but that none of those names were recycled when they were expecting a new baby. Another of our friends confirmed this. Each mother had felt that each child was clearly distinct; a different name came with thinking about each new family member.
The mommies then started talking about experiencing a moment when they realized that they had given a child a name and that child would have that name for the rest of their lives. The great responsibility had impressed upon each of them. However some people will change their names, either because their "given" name doesn't seem to fit or, as I will soon do, because of marriage. A week after getting engaged, I starting thinking deeply about the meaning of names.
For the last 10 years or so, I have been sure that when I got married I would drop my middle name and take my maiden name as my middle name. I have never really loved the sound of my last name, but I have had it for too many years now to let it go. And my last name connects me to my family in a way that my middle name doesn't. My new name will tie me to my husband and to his family and it will be the name of our children.
Names are meaningful. They identify us to others but I think they also help define us to ourselves.
I had thought about the significance of my name before marriage was on the horizon. I call myself different names at different times. When I'm mad at myself I use my full name. When giving myself a little pep talk, I usually use the abbreviated version that only my closest friends use. I never refer to myself by my last name. More often than not, my name appears in my mind as a kind of picture. It isn't an image of my face and I don't see it as Courier New or Times New Roman font. Rather it is a kind of feeling or color (blue) that I recognize as "Me."
After getting engaged I started to have anxieties about loosing my middle name. This didn't happen until I was talking to my brother. He was upset by the fact that I am planning to drop my middle name. Wrapped up in my middle name were some of his most distinctive memories of our childhood together. We have never been very close and I was touched. And then I began to reconsider my decision.
What kept worrying me was, where would my discarded name go? If it ceased to be on any government ID card or as an initial on my credit card, did that mean that my name was gone? It would always be on my birth certificate and I would always know that it was mine. If it wasn't documented or my initial changed, did that mean that it was gone, floating around in name limbo with my own mother's former middle name (and my future mother-in-law's as well?) If names are what we use to identify ourselves to ourselves, does our identity change if our name does?
Intellectually I think that names don't make us who we are; they are just one of many imposed labels that help distinguish us within a community and assist the government in taxing us. But emotionally I think they are something more. They are a little bit like clothes; certain titles, names or labels make us more comfortable than others and no matter how hard we keep trying to feel like ourselves in that pair of white jeans, they will never really be us. My middle name may disappear from forms and my initials will change, but my middle name will always be a piece of who I am. My new name, like our wedding, is a testament to the new family we are becoming. And that feels like a good fit.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Free Milkshake!
I enjoy pockets. One of the only disappointments of summer is the dearth of pockets between the months of June and September. And a great thing about the arrival of fall is anticipating the use of pockets again. Not the tiny tight pockets that women's jeans and shorts have, but the deep comforting pockets of a cozy sweater or your favorite down jacket or peacoat.
I have gone to bed every night for the past two weeks hoping that the tight muggy weather of the midwest will blow away and I will wake up to a cool fall morning. It hasn't happened yet but I know it is coming any day now. When this finally happens the jackets, sweaters and wool pants come out and with them, the pocket time capsules. If I'm really lucky, I will find something older than a year in a pocket that I didn't visit last season.
Granted, sometimes these things are icky. The tissues that never made it into the trash can. A small bit of paper with some gum waded up in it. (On the up side, these do often make my pockets smell minty, which beats moth balls!) From time to time, I rejoice because I tucked some loose bills or change into a pocket and then forgot about it.... free milkshake! However, the pocket treasure that I love best is a movie ticket stub, a Mariner's ticket, a friendly note or fortune cookie promise. These little scraps of life can transport me to another place. It is a kind of time travel, similar to looking at a photo album or scrapbook, but better because I didn't consciously decide to ramble down memory lane. Instead it came upon me suddenly without premeditation.
Best of all, these are not necessarily items that I treasured when I put them into my pockets. They were things to be stored but not to be consciously kept.
The things that you want to keep, you make an effort to put somewhere safe. I have a whole set of boxes in my newly cleaned pantry with old letters and cards, ticket stubs and dried flowers that were important enough to make an effort preserving. Pocket treasures, however, really are scraps. They only move from scrap to treasure because they are reminders of something that had been totally forgotten. The ATM receipt from my cash withdrawal in Paris, a ticket stub from Transformers 2 that was a major disappointment. The handkerchief that I inherited from a dear family friend, a T token from the years I lived in Boston.
There are moments in life when we make an effort to remember certain details and emotions. I imagine that my wedding day will be one of them. The little details sometimes get lost in our efforts to remember the "important" things. Pockets have a seemingly magical power to help remind us of those insignificant days; the days that make up most of our lives and seem to just seep in and around the pivotal ones, filling in the space. Pockets are for the days that we didn't feel the need to take a picture, send a postcard or write a journal entry.
I hope the weather turns tonight.
I have gone to bed every night for the past two weeks hoping that the tight muggy weather of the midwest will blow away and I will wake up to a cool fall morning. It hasn't happened yet but I know it is coming any day now. When this finally happens the jackets, sweaters and wool pants come out and with them, the pocket time capsules. If I'm really lucky, I will find something older than a year in a pocket that I didn't visit last season.
Granted, sometimes these things are icky. The tissues that never made it into the trash can. A small bit of paper with some gum waded up in it. (On the up side, these do often make my pockets smell minty, which beats moth balls!) From time to time, I rejoice because I tucked some loose bills or change into a pocket and then forgot about it.... free milkshake! However, the pocket treasure that I love best is a movie ticket stub, a Mariner's ticket, a friendly note or fortune cookie promise. These little scraps of life can transport me to another place. It is a kind of time travel, similar to looking at a photo album or scrapbook, but better because I didn't consciously decide to ramble down memory lane. Instead it came upon me suddenly without premeditation.
Best of all, these are not necessarily items that I treasured when I put them into my pockets. They were things to be stored but not to be consciously kept.
The things that you want to keep, you make an effort to put somewhere safe. I have a whole set of boxes in my newly cleaned pantry with old letters and cards, ticket stubs and dried flowers that were important enough to make an effort preserving. Pocket treasures, however, really are scraps. They only move from scrap to treasure because they are reminders of something that had been totally forgotten. The ATM receipt from my cash withdrawal in Paris, a ticket stub from Transformers 2 that was a major disappointment. The handkerchief that I inherited from a dear family friend, a T token from the years I lived in Boston.
There are moments in life when we make an effort to remember certain details and emotions. I imagine that my wedding day will be one of them. The little details sometimes get lost in our efforts to remember the "important" things. Pockets have a seemingly magical power to help remind us of those insignificant days; the days that make up most of our lives and seem to just seep in and around the pivotal ones, filling in the space. Pockets are for the days that we didn't feel the need to take a picture, send a postcard or write a journal entry.
I hope the weather turns tonight.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Bathtubs and Feminists
I feel accomplished. Today I went to work, ran a bunch of errands, had coffee "out" (I live in the country, like WAY out in the country), swept my kitchen, cleaned my pantry and most impressive of all I unclogged my bathtub drain and then scrubbed the tub.
Uh ya, the title of my blog is "Quotidian Art." You shouldn't be surprised that the bathtub is making an appearance.
On days like this, when I unclog the tub or change a particularly tricky light bulb at an awkward height or place, set up my own wireless network or figure out how to release the garage door when the power is out, I feel a sense of pride. If I was telling my dad about this he would chuckle and call me a "feminist." Not that he thinks that I shouldn't do these things; he taught me to do most of them, in fact. It is just that he gets a kick out of me bragging about my independent "accomplishments." Over the weekend the concept of a "feminist" came up with my parents. We were talking about a young woman that they know and my mom said, "I don't know if she is a feminist or not." And that made me wonder, are there still feminists? Or are women of my generation what women of my mom's generation would call "feminists" but really we were just raised with the equality and privilege that my grandmother's generation fought for? (I've tried to make that more clear, but it isn't happening, sorry.)
So thanks to the efforts of past generations of great women, I can unclog a bathtub. Real feminists probably would ask me to stop bragging about my success.
Soon I'll be moving out of the world of independent Miss and into (hopefully) independent Mrs. Sometimes I worry, however, that being married will give me permission not do the hard things anymore. In the future will I just ask MarinerMagic to unclog the drain? If the car breaks down on the road will I call him to call the tow company instead of calling them myself? Will I scream when I find the spider on my pillow and demand that he find it and kill it instead of just cooly brushing it off myself? (Not likely; he hastes spiders more than I do.)
But now that he knows that I can do all those things myself, my married life is sure to be less cushy. Shoot.
Addendum: This afternoon my friend T sent me this article from The Guardian. Check it out!
"Your not a feminist, but.....what?" Chloe Angyal
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/apr/07/feminist-f-word-young-women
Uh ya, the title of my blog is "Quotidian Art." You shouldn't be surprised that the bathtub is making an appearance.
On days like this, when I unclog the tub or change a particularly tricky light bulb at an awkward height or place, set up my own wireless network or figure out how to release the garage door when the power is out, I feel a sense of pride. If I was telling my dad about this he would chuckle and call me a "feminist." Not that he thinks that I shouldn't do these things; he taught me to do most of them, in fact. It is just that he gets a kick out of me bragging about my independent "accomplishments." Over the weekend the concept of a "feminist" came up with my parents. We were talking about a young woman that they know and my mom said, "I don't know if she is a feminist or not." And that made me wonder, are there still feminists? Or are women of my generation what women of my mom's generation would call "feminists" but really we were just raised with the equality and privilege that my grandmother's generation fought for? (I've tried to make that more clear, but it isn't happening, sorry.)
So thanks to the efforts of past generations of great women, I can unclog a bathtub. Real feminists probably would ask me to stop bragging about my success.
Soon I'll be moving out of the world of independent Miss and into (hopefully) independent Mrs. Sometimes I worry, however, that being married will give me permission not do the hard things anymore. In the future will I just ask MarinerMagic to unclog the drain? If the car breaks down on the road will I call him to call the tow company instead of calling them myself? Will I scream when I find the spider on my pillow and demand that he find it and kill it instead of just cooly brushing it off myself? (Not likely; he hastes spiders more than I do.)
But now that he knows that I can do all those things myself, my married life is sure to be less cushy. Shoot.
Addendum: This afternoon my friend T sent me this article from The Guardian. Check it out!
"Your not a feminist, but.....what?" Chloe Angyal
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/apr/07/feminist-f-word-young-women
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Kicking rocks
On a walk this afternoon with two fellow faculty members we found ourselves talking about the importance of demanding time for our own lives, recharging our batteries and finding the time to play. Pretty quickly we were talking about the books that we had read theorizing the importance of play, discussing the NPR reports we had heard about the links between creativity and play all while nodding thoughtfully. I was giggling as I pointed out the irony, which wasn't lost on any of us. But sometimes I wonder if I have been over trained to think.
I don't like that I can turn something like "play" into an intellectual exercise. But breaking large concepts down into smaller pieces and analyzing them, sometimes putting them together in new ways, is my job. I get paid to think this way; and truthfully I'm damn lucky that I do. At the same time, I hope that my ability to play isn't slowly leaching out of me.
One of my favorite things about my relationship with MarinerMagic is that we play together. He is silly and I am silly and together we encourage one another's silliness. I had had good relationships before he came into my life, but no one had ever played with me the way that he does while still holding me accountable for the important things. He keeps my play alive.
My fellow faculty friend was sharing that the NPR report had talked about how little we play in American culture. We are all about outcomes and productivity but we very rarely do something just for the sake of doing it; just because we enjoy it or we want to get lost in something that has no destination. As she was talking I had vivid memories of childhood with my younger brother. When we visited our grandparents in Florida we had some of the most fun together. Every morning my grandmother would prepare breakfast. Usually it was cereal but she always had blueberries, which seemed so decadent to us. The blueberries would be life rafts for the sailors (read: cereal bits) that were floating in an ocean of milk. The goal was to make sure that we always had a blueberry on each spoonful. It was a game. Not a game to get us to eat our food, just a game. She just wanted to play with us.
She passed away this summer and I think about her almost everyday. We played with our parents and we played with our friends, but playing with our grandmother was a different kind of play. She was an adult who understood that play was fun. And that was it. That was its purpose. When I was about 12 or 13 we spent the whole summer in Florida with our grandparents. We rescued many cereal sailors and grandpa would wear a cowboy hat and call himself "Tex" while cooking things like "rattlesnake burgers" (read: hamburgers with some peppers.) When I returned home after the summer I missed my grandmother so much that I taped her photo onto my the headboard of my twin bed.
We might lose the urge to play and we might even forget that play is, in fact, fun. It has no purpose that we can measure, tabulate or put on a resume. Going on vacation once or twice a year cannot replace some daily frivolity such as kicking a rock down the lane on your way to the office or pushing your hand against the wind as you drive down the road. The good days are the days when I remember to play.
I don't like that I can turn something like "play" into an intellectual exercise. But breaking large concepts down into smaller pieces and analyzing them, sometimes putting them together in new ways, is my job. I get paid to think this way; and truthfully I'm damn lucky that I do. At the same time, I hope that my ability to play isn't slowly leaching out of me.
One of my favorite things about my relationship with MarinerMagic is that we play together. He is silly and I am silly and together we encourage one another's silliness. I had had good relationships before he came into my life, but no one had ever played with me the way that he does while still holding me accountable for the important things. He keeps my play alive.
My fellow faculty friend was sharing that the NPR report had talked about how little we play in American culture. We are all about outcomes and productivity but we very rarely do something just for the sake of doing it; just because we enjoy it or we want to get lost in something that has no destination. As she was talking I had vivid memories of childhood with my younger brother. When we visited our grandparents in Florida we had some of the most fun together. Every morning my grandmother would prepare breakfast. Usually it was cereal but she always had blueberries, which seemed so decadent to us. The blueberries would be life rafts for the sailors (read: cereal bits) that were floating in an ocean of milk. The goal was to make sure that we always had a blueberry on each spoonful. It was a game. Not a game to get us to eat our food, just a game. She just wanted to play with us.
She passed away this summer and I think about her almost everyday. We played with our parents and we played with our friends, but playing with our grandmother was a different kind of play. She was an adult who understood that play was fun. And that was it. That was its purpose. When I was about 12 or 13 we spent the whole summer in Florida with our grandparents. We rescued many cereal sailors and grandpa would wear a cowboy hat and call himself "Tex" while cooking things like "rattlesnake burgers" (read: hamburgers with some peppers.) When I returned home after the summer I missed my grandmother so much that I taped her photo onto my the headboard of my twin bed.
We might lose the urge to play and we might even forget that play is, in fact, fun. It has no purpose that we can measure, tabulate or put on a resume. Going on vacation once or twice a year cannot replace some daily frivolity such as kicking a rock down the lane on your way to the office or pushing your hand against the wind as you drive down the road. The good days are the days when I remember to play.
Monday, September 20, 2010
"Authentic" vs. "Perfomative"
A few weeks ago I assigned a piece of reading to my freshmen writing seminar students. The article explored the idea of two kinds of people, those who are "authentic" and those who are "performative." Essentially the author made a case that most college professors today grew up in the 60s and 70s where the idea of an authentic self was drilled into them. This is apparently why there seem to be so many professors on college campuses who walk around with ill-fitting clothes, scraggly hair on both head and face and scuffed up shoes that need to be at least shined or at best replaced. Something about those years made youth want to forget that others lived in the world around them and just "be who they be."
Well, you can guess what self I am. Right.... I am that other kind of self. The one that grew up in the 80s and 90s and is concerned about how the world understands me. I am a performative self. This means, according to this author's definition, that I am goal oriented in my behavior. I care more about achieving community acceptance than I care about being who I am "authentically."
So let's just say that I am authentically performative. I perform social adeptness because I don't want people to grimace when they see me coming down the hall for fear that I might be muttering incoherently about soup or buttons. I shower and groom each day so that when I talk to people in the cafeteria, hair isn't flying out in all directions and getting into the salad bar. I won't be taking an incomprehensible vocal stand on the migratory patterns of the earthworm and how paved pathways disturb their REM cycles. The more I think about this concept of the "performative" vs. the "authentic" self the more I get worked up about it.
At one point during this reading exercise with my freshmen I asked them if they thought that I was a performative self or an authentic self. It was unanimous; to them I am an "authentic self." But I doubt that their notion of authentic is the same as mine. Mine is, "crazy person with no social skills." Theirs is, "a person in our sphere of existence who isn't cripplingly shy or self-conscious about how they are appearing to the other 12 people in this room." So I guess I'll take it. What I can't help giggling about is how I seemed to have fooled them into thinking I am "authentic" when really it was all a kind of show. A show that every good teacher puts on for their students.
We pretend to be happy to be in class at 8 AM. (Authentic Heather isn't any more happy to be in class at 8 AM than they are; in fact, is less so.) We pretend to love to give and grade homework. (Authentic Heather loathes grading homework.) We pretend to know everything there is about majors, minors and the right Gen Ed classes. (Authentic Heather knows that none of those tiny decisions really matter in the grand scheme of life.) We pretend that reading our textbook is more important than hanging out in the pub for three hours. (Authentic Heather knows that it might be, but it also probably is not.)
I think that the truth is that we are all some version of both. The people that love us and know us the best are those who know our "authentic" self and can put up with it when it is particularly self-centered or just downright annoying. They also know when to tell us that we are being TOO "perfomative"; they know when we have left much too much of our authentic selves behind. And isn't that always the battle? To balance these two theories of self-hood so that we live the very best of who we truly (note I refrain from using "authentically") are?
Performative Heather hopes that no one reads this post. Authentic Heather hopes they do.
Addendum: The text in question was an excerpt entitled, "Observing the Performance Self: Multiplicity versus Authenticity" from "My Word! Plagiarism and College Culture" by Susan Blum.
Well, you can guess what self I am. Right.... I am that other kind of self. The one that grew up in the 80s and 90s and is concerned about how the world understands me. I am a performative self. This means, according to this author's definition, that I am goal oriented in my behavior. I care more about achieving community acceptance than I care about being who I am "authentically."
So let's just say that I am authentically performative. I perform social adeptness because I don't want people to grimace when they see me coming down the hall for fear that I might be muttering incoherently about soup or buttons. I shower and groom each day so that when I talk to people in the cafeteria, hair isn't flying out in all directions and getting into the salad bar. I won't be taking an incomprehensible vocal stand on the migratory patterns of the earthworm and how paved pathways disturb their REM cycles. The more I think about this concept of the "performative" vs. the "authentic" self the more I get worked up about it.
At one point during this reading exercise with my freshmen I asked them if they thought that I was a performative self or an authentic self. It was unanimous; to them I am an "authentic self." But I doubt that their notion of authentic is the same as mine. Mine is, "crazy person with no social skills." Theirs is, "a person in our sphere of existence who isn't cripplingly shy or self-conscious about how they are appearing to the other 12 people in this room." So I guess I'll take it. What I can't help giggling about is how I seemed to have fooled them into thinking I am "authentic" when really it was all a kind of show. A show that every good teacher puts on for their students.
We pretend to be happy to be in class at 8 AM. (Authentic Heather isn't any more happy to be in class at 8 AM than they are; in fact, is less so.) We pretend to love to give and grade homework. (Authentic Heather loathes grading homework.) We pretend to know everything there is about majors, minors and the right Gen Ed classes. (Authentic Heather knows that none of those tiny decisions really matter in the grand scheme of life.) We pretend that reading our textbook is more important than hanging out in the pub for three hours. (Authentic Heather knows that it might be, but it also probably is not.)
I think that the truth is that we are all some version of both. The people that love us and know us the best are those who know our "authentic" self and can put up with it when it is particularly self-centered or just downright annoying. They also know when to tell us that we are being TOO "perfomative"; they know when we have left much too much of our authentic selves behind. And isn't that always the battle? To balance these two theories of self-hood so that we live the very best of who we truly (note I refrain from using "authentically") are?
Performative Heather hopes that no one reads this post. Authentic Heather hopes they do.
Addendum: The text in question was an excerpt entitled, "Observing the Performance Self: Multiplicity versus Authenticity" from "My Word! Plagiarism and College Culture" by Susan Blum.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
"Bride"
I confess that I am not a blogger, nor a writer. I am just a midwest art history professor who is about to move out of the world of hermit professor with 3 cats (in truth I have 0 cats, but such is the stereotype) and into the world of bride, Mrs and someday, mother.
When the love of my life, MarinerMagic, finally proposed about a month ago I was beyond.... well.... just beyond any human emotion I have a nice smarty word for... and for me, that's pretty beyond. But within 24 hours I noticed something, a not so subtle shift in the way that I thought about myself; thought about who I am. And it wasn't just me, the whole world did it.
Here's the thing, we got engaged in mid-August and we are getting married just before Christmas. Yes, of the same year! (Insert disbelieving, "no it can't be done, what are you thinking, you must hate flowers and parties and nice things" gasp here.) So the planning is moving quickly. I went from clandestine online wedding dress shopping and sneaking off with my girlfriends to try on the real thing to brazen emails popping into my inbox saying, "Dear beautiful bride, congratulations on your engagement! He's probably a nice guy, but if not, don't worry! Our (food, music, cake, flowers, elephant rides) are so unique and wonderful that your dream wedding will be dreamy, even if he isn't." Okay, so that's a sarcastic paraphrase, but that hits pretty close to the mark. I realized within the first two weeks of being engaged that I didn't much care for the title "bride."
The word "bride" is supposed to make every woman feel transformed and beautiful. I felt happy and loved and secure and joyful, but I didn't suddenly feel like some super model version of myself. (If I had suddenly looked more like Natalie Portman, my beloved probably wouldn't have minded, but....) If I have transformed, it is not into an ethereal creature in white who can bestow mystical powers on little girls with a touch of her magic bridal bouquet, but rather into a controlling, obsessed, vindictive shrew who tries all day not to yell at everyone from the florist to MrMarinerMagic to my mother about the width of ribbon to be tied on lavender bundles that will be hung mostly outside of the guests' view. This coming from a woman who has spent most of the last 6-10 years cuddling texts on post-modern architectural theory and the American Arts and Crafts movement in the solitude of a comfy yet sloppy single gal apartment.
One week after we became engaged and the serious business of choosing a venue for our December wedding near Seattle was done, I was back in the midwest in my classroom teaching new freshman to freewrite, compose poems and creatively outline essays. Freshman writing seminar is one of the bright lights of my academic year. My freewrites in the past are little time capsule gems, which are sometimes interesting and sometimes fluff. When I look back at this year's freewrites all I will find are lists of wedding "to-dos." This makes me sad. And so I started thinking.....
Perhaps once I get through all this wedding planning, past the day when I become officially MrsMarinerMagic.... I will wake up and realize that I am still me. I am still the person that I was at 3 when I wore my swimsuit and cowboy boots out into the front yard to drop rocks in a bucket of water. I am still the person who saw a Rembrandt painting in high school integrated arts and was instantly uplifted. I am still the person whose most vivid memory of England is riding on the train from London to Liverpool and trying to answer blue collar questions about Monica Lewinsky. I am still the person who has spent nearly all of her disposable income on books and shoes. These are the small things. The quotidian moments that make me who I am.
However, my life is about to change from being about taking care of myself, to being in a partnership where it will often be more important to take care of someone else. Here is where I hope to capture the new quotidian moments of my life. Not as a bride, not as a Mrs. and not as a mom. But as me.
When the love of my life, MarinerMagic, finally proposed about a month ago I was beyond.... well.... just beyond any human emotion I have a nice smarty word for... and for me, that's pretty beyond. But within 24 hours I noticed something, a not so subtle shift in the way that I thought about myself; thought about who I am. And it wasn't just me, the whole world did it.
Here's the thing, we got engaged in mid-August and we are getting married just before Christmas. Yes, of the same year! (Insert disbelieving, "no it can't be done, what are you thinking, you must hate flowers and parties and nice things" gasp here.) So the planning is moving quickly. I went from clandestine online wedding dress shopping and sneaking off with my girlfriends to try on the real thing to brazen emails popping into my inbox saying, "Dear beautiful bride, congratulations on your engagement! He's probably a nice guy, but if not, don't worry! Our (food, music, cake, flowers, elephant rides) are so unique and wonderful that your dream wedding will be dreamy, even if he isn't." Okay, so that's a sarcastic paraphrase, but that hits pretty close to the mark. I realized within the first two weeks of being engaged that I didn't much care for the title "bride."
The word "bride" is supposed to make every woman feel transformed and beautiful. I felt happy and loved and secure and joyful, but I didn't suddenly feel like some super model version of myself. (If I had suddenly looked more like Natalie Portman, my beloved probably wouldn't have minded, but....) If I have transformed, it is not into an ethereal creature in white who can bestow mystical powers on little girls with a touch of her magic bridal bouquet, but rather into a controlling, obsessed, vindictive shrew who tries all day not to yell at everyone from the florist to MrMarinerMagic to my mother about the width of ribbon to be tied on lavender bundles that will be hung mostly outside of the guests' view. This coming from a woman who has spent most of the last 6-10 years cuddling texts on post-modern architectural theory and the American Arts and Crafts movement in the solitude of a comfy yet sloppy single gal apartment.
One week after we became engaged and the serious business of choosing a venue for our December wedding near Seattle was done, I was back in the midwest in my classroom teaching new freshman to freewrite, compose poems and creatively outline essays. Freshman writing seminar is one of the bright lights of my academic year. My freewrites in the past are little time capsule gems, which are sometimes interesting and sometimes fluff. When I look back at this year's freewrites all I will find are lists of wedding "to-dos." This makes me sad. And so I started thinking.....
Perhaps once I get through all this wedding planning, past the day when I become officially MrsMarinerMagic.... I will wake up and realize that I am still me. I am still the person that I was at 3 when I wore my swimsuit and cowboy boots out into the front yard to drop rocks in a bucket of water. I am still the person who saw a Rembrandt painting in high school integrated arts and was instantly uplifted. I am still the person whose most vivid memory of England is riding on the train from London to Liverpool and trying to answer blue collar questions about Monica Lewinsky. I am still the person who has spent nearly all of her disposable income on books and shoes. These are the small things. The quotidian moments that make me who I am.
However, my life is about to change from being about taking care of myself, to being in a partnership where it will often be more important to take care of someone else. Here is where I hope to capture the new quotidian moments of my life. Not as a bride, not as a Mrs. and not as a mom. But as me.
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