I think I’m turning British

The British pretty much embody those “Keep Calm and Carry On” posters which have become oddly ubiquitous.  Oddly, because the Nazis never invaded England, and the poster is otherwise a superfluous statement to the English.  The slogan isn’t a command, but a succinct summary of a way of life.  English people never make a fuss.  This is extremely important, because if you make a fuss, then other people might get bothered and then things would get Awkward.  Things must never, ever get awkward.

Americans are obviously different.  We like to give ’em hell, and ’em could really mean anyone.  People fly off the handle all the time, and it’s almost a badge of honor because you get what you want.  I’m not saying it’s right, but Americans are not half as concerned as being awkward.  Take reality tv as the extreme example.  No one in England would ever, ever flip a table over and scream that someone was a prostitution whore, but that very act vaulted Teresa Giudice to D List celebrity in America.  Lest you say that we stared in horror, I counter with the fact that I don’t think British people would even appreciate it for Teresa’s lack of knowledge regarding synonyms.  Their skin would crawl.  Sidenote: one could theorize this is why their scripted comedies are full of cringe-inducing embarrassment (see: the Office, UK version).  We laugh at those who we feel superior to, and in British comedy, the average watcher feels vastly superior to those who make scenes.

I’m quite an emotional person.  I don’t really give ’em hell, as it were, but there have definitely been times when I have let my emotions show in public.  Like when I sobbed on the subway unreservedly.  I did think that as I matured, though, I was getting better at not making scenes.  That is until I got to England.  MR has a couple of times accused me of being very American.  He had really bad tooth problems, and we went to the dentist, but they basically told him to say ‘aaah’ and then gave him some antibiotics.  I was livid, because he was in such pain and they weren’t doing anything to help him, and I expressed this as we were making our way to reception, and he promptly shushed me.  Later he told me that’s just not what British people do.

To underscore this, my mother-in-law told me a story of when she was in Vegas, and she and my father-in-law went to the Hard Rock Cafe.  His meal was apparently unpalatable, and when the waitress came round to ask how the food was, he told her so.  If you say this nicely, in America no one thinks twice.  Even if you say it rudely, it’s not a breach of etiquette except that everyone thinks you’re kind of a dick to wait staff.  But as my mother-in-law told me this story she said “I just wanted to sink through the floor.  I was willing him not to make a scene.”  He got the result he wanted–the food was carried back to the kitchen and the item taken off his bill.  But by forcing the waitress to carry it back in, to explain to the chef and the manager…to a British person, this is just all too awkward for words, and goes on the top 5 embarrassing moments list.

Which brings me to last Wednesday.

My husband and I, in an effort to do everything in a relationship as quickly as possible, are buying a house.  A year ago we had barely started dating, which is very weird to think.

In order to affect the purchase of this house, we went down to the bank to get a mortgage.  Because I am as yet unemployed due to visa reasons, the mortgage was only going to be in his name.  Nevertheless, I didn’t worry about this because he already has a mortgage, so it really seemed like a formality than anything else.

Until my husband recounted his job history.  He’s had three positions in the past two years, but each has been for a good reason.  He as gone to a better paying job, and then from a contract job to a permanent job (with an amazing boss).  All good reasons to switch, yet upon hearing this, the mortgage adviser got nervous.  Which in turn made me nervous.

Anyone who has failed a credit check ever will understand why I hate credit checks.  That disapproval of your whole life, the reduction of you to a number–a *bad* number.  And the pity in people’s faces when they tell you you’re declined.  It is heart stoppingly awful, and I didn’t think for one second my husband, with his no debt and his mortgage and his good paying job would ever be in that position.

And then I started thinking–what would I do if we were declined?  What if we couldn’t get a mortgage?  I was panicking inwardly, or not so inwardly as my husband said aloud “You’re nervous about the credit check, aren’t you?”

While we waited for all the data entry, his observation got me thinking.  A couple of days before we were talking about what we would do if I was still in NY during Hurricane Sandy and he was here in England.  He teased me that I would be panicking and falling apart, and I thought–no, I would hold it together.  But then I realized that I hadn’t shown him the more resilient side of me.  I do tend to fall to pieces around him because he picks them up, and I like the novelty of feeling so protected, as well as the protection itself.

I thought then that I needed to show him I would not be American in all things, and I wasn’t going to fall apart at the first hint of trouble.  This was happening to both of us, dammit, and I wasn’t going to hog the spotlight with my histrionics and make him feel worse, and like he had a partner he couldn’t rely on.  I was going to be a good wife, and I was going to do it by being as British as I could in this situation, and I would keep calm and carry on and keep the side up and all of that.  Tally-ho!

Before the answer came back, I had already determined that we would still try to find a mortgage, and if not, well then we would have to rent.  And while owning would certainly be preferable, we could still have a nice house if we rented, and we were going to make the best of it.  So when the mortgage adviser turned the screen around and CASE DECLINED was on the screen in big red letters, I was prepared.  I did not cry, or get upset.  When my husband expressed some of his frustration, I let some of mine go, but only *some.*  All in all, I was very proud of myself.

Apparently I still have some way to go–once we got that, and the adviser said it was an irreversible decision, I wanted to cut off the conversation with “Okay.  Thank you for your help.”  But apparently that’s not the done thing either.  And of course, my face was all too expressive–I feel like I have a wide range of facial expressions of which I am largely unaware.

Still, the important thing here is that I did not make a huge scene, and I did not make it because I knew that wouldn’t be the done thing.  That is acclimating.

But the moment I really knew this culture was seeping into my bones was when I got home.  I was alone, because MR was back at work for the afternoon.  I could have let loose and had a good cry and gotten in all out, something I’ve often found exceedingly cathartic.  But I didn’t shed a tear.

Instead, I put the kettle on and made a cup of tea.

 

PS – All’s well that ends well.  The decision was so puzzling that my husband took it to Twitter, saying he’d been with the bank all his life and didn’t see why they would suddenly reject his business.  They responded to his tweet and called him, and after some discussion, the reason came to light: it wasn’t because of the jobs, it was because according to their records he had missed a payment, but their records were incorrect.  He had the information to prove it, and they very reasonably said they were happy to give us a mortgage.  Which is a huge relief, although it does make the adviser kind of an idiot.  We have to meet with him again to process the paperwork, unfortunately.  My husband has ordered me to be nothing but polite.  Because we don’t want things to get Awkward.  I suppose the change isn’t that apparent.

Excuse me, ma’am

I believe I’ve mentioned before how when I so much as liked a guy, I’d match my name to his last name to see how it sounded.  My high school crush and my college boyfriend had middling results.  I had a passing fancy for a guy whose last name was Kelly, and I thought ‘Caroline Kelly’ sounded like a movie star’s name.  But the best, by far, is my new last name.  (Which I’m not revealing at the moment because you know, internet anonymity, etc.  Not that many stalkers or dangerous people would have mu.ch patience for this blog, but meh).  It’s unusual and elegant sounding, and with it, I sound like a Jane Austen character.  Plus, I get to keep my CCC monogram.  CCCC if I hyphenate.

I was very much looking forward to the time when I could be Mrs. C instead of Miss C, and devoted a good deal of time fantasizing about it and crowing about my new last name to anyone who would sit still long enough to listen.

In the months leading up to my wedding, I resented filling out forms and still having to call myself Ms. or Miss, because I was so close to being a married woman.  I reflected how beautiful the word ‘wife’ is, and how I longed to be Mr and Mrs C.  Some people may think this terribly old fashioned and not at all liberated, but I do wonder how liberated I am in actual practice, despite being very women’s lib in theory (more on that later).

Now, though, people are starting to use my new last name.  It’s on my British bank card.  There’s a package of moving boxes addressed to “Mrs. C C” in my living room.  My students, who I keep in touch with, bless them, have great fun with it, addressing emails “Hi Ms–I mean, Mrs!”  Even my mother sent me something and addressed it to “Mrs. C.”  Of course I like it–I love it–but there is still a part of me that can’t quite believe that’s me.  Case in point–I was doing the calligraphy for my sister-in-law’s wedding invitations and saw “Mr and Mrs M C” on the list.  As I’d done all the invitations for that side of the family for my own wedding, I wondered who that was because I hadn’t seen the name before.  Then I realized–it was the invitation for me and my husband.

I admit, it’s a bit weird, being a Mrs.  I think because I was a Ms or Miss for so long, and, being a teacher, my last name gets used a lot.  In a way, too, it makes me feel older.  Which is silly, but it does.  ‘Miss’ is used for young girls and women, and I’ve always taken secret satisfaction in the fact that when strangers want to get my attention they mostly say “Excuse me, Miss.”  It’s a great sitcom joke when women get called “ma’am” and it makes them feel old, and I’m certainly brainwashed in that regard.  I’ve been clinging on to youth for awhile, and suddenly I’m Mrs, and with that comes a very grown up life where I’m thinking about selling and buying houses and having children.  I suppose this might have been different if I got married in my early 20’s like some of my friends, but as I got married in my early 30’s, it’s very different.

It’s not that being Mrs is bad, mind you.  It’s a wonderful feeling to be someone’s wife, and it’s so interesting to think seriously about things I thought I would never have two years ago.  It just takes some getting used to, that in taking on a new prefix, I’ve taken on a new life.

But of course, now that I’m applying for a visa and carefully reading over the application so as not to miss a single line, I note that it says the visa will be issued in the same name as my passport–i.e., my maiden name.  Despite all my ruminations on how odd it is to suddenly be Mrs, I find I very much want to be.  I wonder now if all my documentation will, depressingly, have my maiden name.

It’s funny–in principle I’m very women’s rights, and have crusaded often on the very subject, be it contemplating writing a story from the point of view of the voiceless women in Hamlet, or decrying Twilight for its treatment of women to my students.  Yet in practice, I find myself very traditional.  I always knew I would take my husband’s name, without hesitation.  Should I ever have the good fortune to be a published author, I’ll publish under my married name.  I’ve never had a moment’s scruple about it.  I know some women think that it’s a sublimation of the self to take on a married name, that suddenly your identity gets absorbed in your husband’s by becoming Mrs John Smith (or what have you).  I don’t quite see it that way.  Getting married is, to me, starting a whole new family, and that new family deserves a new name.  I want the world to know my husband and I belong together right on the very surface of it.  It’s the same reason I was very keen on my husband wearing his wedding ring.  I just hope that I get the chance to get used to it!

Petty victories

I’m sitting at home these days, because my visa currently forbids me from working.  This is the state of affairs until my appointment on the 18th of October, and after all the wedding hullabaloo and traveling halfway across the planet for honeymoon, I find myself a bit bored.  So I’ve been cooking.  Yesterday I made a bunch of jam tarts as we had a lot of jam and the husband is rather partial to them.  As it was my first time making them, the jam/ pie crust ratio was all off, but he liked them well enough anyway that he took some to work today.  I was pretty proud of that, both because I take pride in my ability to cook well and because it was nice to feel like the good sort of little wife who bakes things for her husband.  Sickeningly Donna Reed, but even so.

One of the side effects of this project though was that there were now a bunch of personal sized jam tarts cluttering our very tiny kitchen.  So we were staring at them last night trying to decide how to store them, when suddenly the husband (he so needs a better nickname) goes into the bedroom and emerges with a tin which I vaguely remembered seeing, incongruously, in his wardrobe.  He cocked an eyebrow and said to me “Many moons ago, the Princess gave me this with some cake inside.”

The Princess is a girl from his romantic past, who basically whinged about how there were no nice guys out there, and when my husband presented himself (as he is a nice guy, though likes to pretend that he’s not), she grew coy and said that oh, they were just friends.  This earned her the nickname the Princess, because she was always on the hunt for Prince Charming.

I hate this girl.  I hate her in a super catty girl way that I’ve never felt towards any other girl before.  Let me be clear: I’ve never met her, and she only barely knows I exist.  When the husband and I first got together last year she was in the habit of randomly messaging him, because she didn’t have his attention anymore. (In my defense that was the husband’s assessment of the situation, not my own.)  He did take an opportunity to crow about his good fortune, and I was smugly glad.  Because, I cannot reiterate this enough, I hate her.  Even though the most I’ve seen of her is her facebook photo.

In reality I ought to be grateful to her.  If she had been a wiser woman and realized that my husband is a pretty awesome guy, he’d be her husband and I’d be moaning about my singledom still.  But even with this knowledge I have never wanted to have one of those scratching girl cat fights with someone so much.  Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating.  A bit.

Bizarrely, I’m also kind of fascinated by her.  I want to grill my husband about her, but he’s not really one to dwell on the past.  But I want to know more, so I can get angry–I think because there is a loyal streak in me, and if you hurt someone I love, you go on my list.  But also, I think she is the female embodiment of the hurt I once faced, when I hung off my first and only boyfriend while he grew steadily more disinterested.  Nothing is as painful as indifference.

So you would think I’d grab this cake tin and run to hurl it off the balcony, but I had a curious reaction of blandness to it.  He pried the lid off and I saw that he had never actually washed the tin, because frosting was still stuck to the top.  After having an “I live with a *boy*!” moment during which he shrugged at my disgust and proceeded to start filling the tin with jam tarts, I remarked something else.

“That cake had icing on it,” I observed.

“Yes,” said my husband, still busy trying to fit all the tarts in, and failing.

“But you hate icing.”  I am desperately trying to learn his food likes and dislikes, which run along a set of obscure rules understood only by him and his youngest sister, who is apparently like him in that regard.  They go something like this: he doesn’t like cheese, except when melted on a Tuesday that’s a full moon.  It would be a lot easier if he didn’t like cheese.  I do remember that he hates icing, much to my chagrin because I love it.  I had also gotten heat for putting a layer of buttercream in the middle of a Victoria Sponge I made last week.  According to him it should have just been jam.

“Maybe back then, I pretended I loved it.”

I thought about this, and it gave me an odd sense of comfort.  Clearly my husband and the Princess did not have a real relationship.  He didn’t even feel confident enough to tell her his preferences, he was simply grateful for the gesture.  I suppose I could go on a little rant here about how I get grief instead of gratitude, but I don’t really.  He’s just honest, because he feels safe enough.  (And he’s not exactly without kind words either, to be perfectly fair.)  But he can be honest because what we have is real and permanent.  There is no need to beg for favors or attention, or be grateful for whatever scraps we get.  It made me think–we’re good for each other, because he shows me who he is.  And because I listen enough to know not to put icing on anything.

So he went on filling the tin he got from the Princess with tarts I had made, which struck me as symbolic.  And it was symbolic of the fact that I won.

Oh, and also that we’re much better off in this relationship, which is why it’s the one that stuck.

Get it?  Stuck?  Jam?  Old icing?  Omg, I just made a pun.  My husband is rubbing off on me.

For my husband, who is probably rolling his eyes at the fact that I turned something stupid into something significant: this is what you get when you marry an English major.

Red hot exhaustion

**Disclaimer:  So, obviously, this blog is based a lot on my personal life.  In this post, I reference a real event, and real opinions of my friends (though I have made every endeavor to keep them anonymous).  The debate I reference got quite heated, and to any of my friends who may recognize themselves or their points of view–I’m not taking sides.  I’m just ruminating, because it’s an interesting debate.

Two days before the wedding, my sister-in-law (in two days) was driving me and three of my bridesmaids who were staying with me back from the rehearsal barbecue we had just days before the wedding.  She and I were chatting inconsequentially when all of a sudden the volume of the conversation in the backseat rose by a volume of about 15 decibels.  I caught snatches of it, and being a naturally inquisitive (read: nosy) person, I was dying to know what was going on.  But I was marrying into a British family, and  the Brits excel at a) not making a fuss and b) pretending a fuss is not happening.  (Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever fit in. )  So we carried on talking about teaching.

Eventually, I found out that the source of the debate was this: one friend was explaining how she wanted her relationship to be full of lifelong passion, and the other was saying that is an unrealistic expectation.  In so many words.

Of course this got me thinking, as I was about to enter into a lifelong relationship.  What did I hope for in my marriage?

The friend arguing passion had expressed this feeling to me before, and in expressing that opinion said, essentially, that she didn’t want to be friends with her partner, that she had plenty of friends, and if he wanted to tell her about his day, maybe he could feel her up while doing it.

I have the good fortune to have some truly amazing friends (like the ones I’m referring to in this post), and in that I see her point.  I don’t *need* another friend.  That is one area where my life is full.  But still…the husband and I are friends, and in a lot of ways that’s really nice.

Part of the draw of being with someone is that you don’t have to be alone anymore.  When you are in any form of serious relationship, there’s a comfort in knowing you won’t come home to an empty house.  Or even more, that their lives are tied up with yours.  Someone else cares just as much when the internet goes out, or the tv dies, or dinner gets burnt, and that makes you feel a little less alone.  And if you’re going to be going through life together, it’s nice to know that the person by your side is a comrade-in-arms, a friend who can be confided in and relied on.

More than that, it’s fun.  Passion is an important part of life, but it’s a very specific one, and unless you have some seriously jumped up hormones, nobody feels passionate every waking moment of the day.  So when you’re not feeling passionate, if that’s the basis of the relationship with your partner, there’s not a whole lot left to do together.  My husband and I can sit around watching Wonders of the Solar System or play Rock Band or just sit and have a chat.  Last night we ate dinner, watched a couple of episodes of Community and Grand Designs, played a bit of Rock Band and read in bed.  Nothing hot about it, but I loved reading in bed together, because we’d read funny bits to each other, or turn and smile at each other, and the simplicity of that made me really happy.

Moreover, constant passion is exhausting at the very least, if not unsustainable.  To wit: one of my other friends was telling me how a coworker’s marriage seemed to be falling apart due to some Facebook craziness.  I was shocked, but then as she went on to explain, they were crazy for each other but would fly into jealous rages and follow each other to make sure of where they were going, and interrogate each other over who’s posting what on whose Facebook wall.  There was lots of slamming doors and sleeping on the couch.  That to me is a side effect of a passionate relationship.  Yes, the highs are very high, but nothing in life can be a constant high.  Eventually there’s a crash, and in a relationship that means bitter arguments, perhaps a lack of trust.  Perhaps even (and this may be a controversial hypothesis) passion causes mistrust, because when one partner isn’t feeling amorous or passionate, the other can easily come to believe that they’re getting satisfaction elsewhere.

Also, if passion is constant in a relationship, when it’s good, what room is there for anything else?  I remember a friend (the same one who was reporting on her work mate’s problems) telling me about her first relationship, a deeply involving Edward and Bella sort of affair (her comparison).  She told me that after the whole thing ended her family expressed sheer relief.  Apparently, they hated the guy because not only did he not even address them, but he also totally distracted her and drew her in.  We’ve all been there, but the point is would you want that for the rest of your life?

The husband and I discussed this debate while on our honeymoon, which turned out to have its very unromantic moments.  Ultimately, I’m glad we’re friends and glad we can support each other when we’re feeling ill or upset.

But this is a double-edge sword.  It is so easy to be friends, and so comfortable, that a danger exists.  While constant passion is unsustainable, it is all too easy to forget about it altogether and sink into the comforts of married life.  We’re going through this a bit now, I think.  There’s no more drama, no more separation, no more big wedding, and so while we have our nights where we do stuff together, there are also nights where we’re in the same room, but engaged in our own activities.  It is blissful to do nothing, and sometimes it’s tempting to not bother with passion and romance, because they are a lot of work.  But the thing is that when you marry someone, while it’s necessary to be friends, you’re clearly not *just* friends, not if you married for love.  There is an attraction there, and that shouldn’t be forgotten because things are familiar and comfortable.

I think the thing is that keeping passion alive does take work.  If it happens too naturally, then you get a very tumultuous relationship that exists only around passion.  But humans are essentially lazy, and once the chase is over would rather rest than keep running.  Of course, all this is well and good to say, but the trick is to find the things that will keep the spark alive.

Contented Ever After

The (very famous) opening line of Anna Karenina is “All happy families are alike: each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”  This is one of those literary moments that became famous because it is a universal pearl of wisdom that Tolstoy shrewdly pointed out.  Most people focus on the ‘unhappy families,’ and all the problems and drama therein–after all, isn’t that the very basis of story even in life?  But I find myself in the first part of the sentence at the moment, settling in to contentment.

I think that’s the exact sentiment–settling in, and contentment.

There is nothing wrong with either of these things, really.  In fact, I’ve wanted both for a long time, and have tried to fabricate contentment all the years when I was alone and something was missing.  In our long stretches apart, the husband spoke very fondly of a time when we could be together and do nothing together.

So here I am, in happily ever after.  All the hullabaloo is over, and I have exactly what I’ve always dreamed of.  And I’m *not* ungrateful.  I’m very content.

Just…happily ever after feels a bit anticlimactic.

I’m not used to a quiet romantic life.  Up until now, my love story has had a sort of novelesque feel–finding someone so serendipitously, knowing we were right for each other so quickly and then making a relationship work across an ocean through sheer perseverance and the wonders of Skype.  The way he proposed so quickly, and as such a romantic surprise, planning a wedding and worrying how we would ever be together with draconic immigration rules getting in the way.

Because our time together was so limited, every second felt precious, and we felt the need to fill it with excitement and activity.  We were always going out somewhere, doing something, and when I arrived at last to live, the fairy tale continued, for we were gearing up then for a wedding.  I thought life had its quiet moments then, but I was wrong.  This is quiet.

After everything, I think that’s what I’m struggling to get used to.  The biggest day of my life, that I hoped and planned for since I was a little girl, is over, never to come again.  That’s an odd feeling.  I don’t think I would want to stage another wedding, not with all the stress of coordination involved, but it’s weird to know that I can’t dimly look forward to being a bride.

And life is so quiet.  Due to visa stuff I can’t work at the moment.  Tomorrow all my fellow teachers will be heading back to school, preparing course contracts, writing out lesson plan calendars, fighting for space at the copier.  In July I thought I’d never miss it, but now I find that I do.  That’s the trick of teaching.  You get to feeling like your life has some real drive and purpose.  But here I am, looking for ways to fill my days.  At the beginning of July, when it was all still like a fairy tale I thought I could happily be a housewife.  That’s because it was still novel, and still this illusion of peace in the midst of turmoil.  Now it’s all to easy to spend the day melting into the sofa cushions and watching bad reality tv while playing iPad games.

I’m *not* complaining.  I am happy to have my story, and I’m happy to be a wife, and to know in a few hours my husband will come home, and we’ll have dinner and live the ordinary life we’ve been craving.  I don’t even dislike the quiet, I’m just…struggling to adjust.  Everything went quiet so quickly.  It’s like when I would visit my grandparents in the Pocono Mountains in the summer.  In New York, even in Queens, there is always street noise.  Even if we didn’t live on a main drag, there was always one nearby, and the rush of traffic, punctuated by sirens and sometimes people wandering about, doing who knows what at 2am in the hours between Monday and Tuesday.  It was its own lullaby to me, and I grew used to the sounds, found the constant company comforting.  Then we would go to the Poconos, where there were no streetlights and the darkness closed around the car as we wended our way up barely paved roads with no sidewalks.  When I would lie in bed at night, all I could hear was crickets.  They were so loud, and so natural, that I missed the rush of the city.  Eventually I got used to the crickets, and they lulled me to a better sleep than I got in Queens, but there was still that period of adjustment, of learning how to cope with quiet after noise and bustle.

What I find weird is how the husband and I are settling in to our old routines even while everything is new.  I’ll happily sit chatting to my best friend while he plays Xbox.  There’s not anything wrong with this, but there’s still a part of me that wonders–shouldn’t we be glued to each other’s sides just that little bit more?  Is all the romance leaving our relationship already?  Probably not–we’re still quite sappy with each other, but it’s just another example of how quickly things are slowing down and how normal married life is.  When I was single, marriage seemed like this fantasy land, a nirvana where one has achieved perfect bliss.  That of course is hardly the case–it’s just life, with someone beside you.  And I’m struggling to get used to the normalcy of that.

Wasting away in paradise

So it turns out a sojourn in paradise does not mean everything is perfect.  I just went on honeymoon in the Maldives, and it looked like this:

We stayed in one of these:

And they did things for us like this:

It was exactly what you would imagine paradise to be.  I’ve never been steeped in beauty like that before.  Of course I’ve been a lot of beautiful places, some unexpectedly idyllic (like the visitors center in Concord, Massachusetts).  But I’ve never stayed in one place that is so aesthetically pleasing all the time.  Everything was perfect-looking, unspoiled.  Of course, there was a staff on the island which worked like elves (sometimes camouflaged in green uniforms) to preserve this, but nature did a pretty good job on her own with crystal clear aqua water and deep blue skies.  That is what is relaxing about going someplace beautiful that is the middle of nowhere.  We had nothing to do but enjoy the scenery.

Some people might be bored on such a holiday.  Even I couldn’t go to the beach every time.  But for a honeymoon, it was perfect.  I love museums, but didn’t want to spend a week scurrying through them.  Cities fascinate me, but I didn’t want to be dead on my feet.  I wanted to enjoy time with my new husband, and the respite of it being just the two of us after all the wedding frenzy.

Well, we certainly did grow closer, but not in the way you’d expect.  We caught a stomach bug and were both down for the count for a couple of days.  Even after we recovered, it was mostly chicken and rice at the buffet, passing over the tempting carving station, cheese board and unlimited desserts.

It was disappointing, but it didn’t ruin our vacation in the way I thought it would.  Firstly, when there’s nothing to do but lay around and look at the ocean, it was hard to feel like we were missing out.  Our water villa was gorgeous inside, and we didn’t pay to upgrade and not spend any time there.  And ok, when we left I thought we would be engaging in honeymoon activities and packed appropriately, but it turns out that being sick together brought us closer in another way.  We wound up taking care of each other (I think he was better at it than me, but he’s British and a boy and therefore doesn’t embrace coddling very well), and let me tell you, having a stomach bug together tore down any fair-like illusions that were left, any ideas that we could somehow be perfect people for each other.  We found out how much the other person’s crap stunk and we loved each other anyway.

And at the end of it, we rallied enough to snorkel and go on a sunset cruise and do some lazing around in other locations, like the pool.  I’ll always remember how beautiful Komandoo is, but what I’ll also take away is that this little sojourn in an ethereal paradise was the beginning of a very real marriage, with all the thorns and warts that make it somehow lovelier.

A rebuttal

So my fiance posted about the end of his bachelor-hood, as I am moving to England in one (1) week and we are both rather stunned by the fact that after a year plus all this long distance bs becomes a thing of the past.  He seems to think many other things are going to become a thing of the past, and you can read the original list here.  But as I read this, I think he needs some reassurance/ reality checks.  So, my response:

My (fiance’s) bachelor bucket list.

• Wake up when I want to.  —One of the reasons I’m marrying you is that we’re both not morning people.  This in my estimation will give us a whole heap of marital accord.
• Announce the morning with a bottom bugle call. –Ok, yes, that’s got to go.  At least doing it under the covers does.  I don’t want the poison gas on me!  It’s my fear of nuclear fallout.
• Have a wash without searching through all the girly soaps and creams.–Maybe some of them would do you good.  Everyone could use some pores unblocked.
• Be able to use the shower without knocking over a hundred kinds of shampoo and conditioner. –If you let me get a shower organizer, everything would be…wait for it…organized. 😛
• Spend an hour on the toilet reading.  –Maybe that’s not a bad idea because it gives the smell particles a chance to die.
• Be able to use the toilet when I want (as there is nobody sat on it reading).  —How I Met Your Mother wisely pointed out that if you’re not reading, it’s just lost time.
• Leave the toilet seat lid up (every time I go in there I have to lift the lid up, how many times do we men have to tell you).  –At least you don’t run the danger of having your butt dunked in the toilet!  That’s why we win.  Also, should I be concerned that quite a few of these are toilet related, or is that just living with boys?  I’ve never lived with a boy before to know…
• Sit on the sofa and switch the sport on without worrying that we were meant to go out for cushions.  –You already have cushions…we don’t need any more.  Although come on–would you turn down a trip for Ikea meatballs?  I didn’t think so.  This is the plus of being in a couple.  More meatballs.
• Sit and watch sport without being told “what more sport” as I proceed to watch cricket/rugby/football/F1/tennis/Tour De France/Ryder Cup etc.  –Admittedly I do have a sports limit, but it’s higher than you think…
• Eat nothing but meats and starch, and only using tomato sauce as part of my five a day. –We can do that on pizza night…  Also curry night.  Once a week.
• Play computer games while watching sport. –Play away!  But you know, maybe you could acknowledge my presence once or twice over the course of such an evening.  
• Not be questioned over the revealing outfits female characters wear in most games. If I was looking for a high brow discussion on modern post feminism I would watch Loose Women and not play Mass Effect. –I would treat you to my feminist rant here, but that would just mean spoilers for later on.  You gotta keep some mystery alive sometimes.
• Watch TV shows without explaining every situation, especially if the question is due to be answered in 30 seconds.  –What?  I never do that!  Not ever.  Never.  Besides which, how do I know the answer is going to come in 30 seconds if I’ve never seen the thing before.  Exactly.  
• Write a blog post.  –Write away!  If I tried to put any caps on writing in our household, that would put me in serious trouble.
• Not keep my phone on waiting for a Skype call.  –Word.  And not having to deal with the vagaries of internet video chat, and being able to use non verbal communication for once…  Oooh, and being in the same time zone so that our window to talk isn’t three hours long exactly.
• Do the clothes washing on the same setting for everything. –You will know and love your delicates cycle.  But you’ll also appreciate the things which need to be washed on the delicates cycle too, so it evens out in the end, really.  Also, someone else will do the washing like, 20% of the time.  That’s 20% more time for you.
• Iron everything on the same heat.  –See above.
• Organise everything in the flat how I like. Whether its books, DVDs or remote controls.  –No lie, this is a bit unnerving to me too.  How do people merge their stuff and sense of spatial order?  Is there a manual?  There should be a manual.  But you can be librarian still and always.
• Own the remote control. –That is the end of an era.  You can watch your sport, but be prepared for some Downton Abbey in the evening.
• Go to bed when I’m tired.  –This makes me think you think I’ll tie you to a chair and force you to watch an entire season of Downton Abbey in one night.  As long as you don’t make me go to bed with you, I’m fine.  Then I can watch Bridezillas streamed from America until two in the morning.
• Sleep in the middle of the bed and have all the duvet. –Steal the duvet and I will put my cold toes on you in retaliation.
• Keep the windows and doors closed to stop the pollen/vampires getting in.  –Not generally a problem, except on hot nights.  Could I postulate a theory that vampires melt in the heat?  Probably not–damn you Bon Temps, for refuting my theory.
• Snore. –I think you underestimate how heavily I can sleep.

But there are some things I’ll be missing too.  For example:

• I don’t think my ginormous Prince Caspian poster (complete with Ben Barnes pointing his sword right at me) will ever grace my walls again.
• I will have to hear complaints about the number of bad reality tv shows I can watch, and the amount of times I can watch a sitcom rerun.
• Farewell to the incomparable freedom of an open bathroom door.
• No more dinners of candy bars and fruit (to make it healthy).
• No more falling asleep on the couch at nine and staggering to bed at two.
• No more sampling four different kinds of moisturizer at any given time.
• I will have to put my shoes away.  And also probably my purse.  Even when I like it’s place ‘near the middle of the floor’ so much.
• I’ll also probably have to explain why I have so many shoes.  It’s less than I used to have is an argument that probably wouldn’t make sense to a guy.

But then we both get:

• Someone to come home to every night
• Someone to go out with when we’re bored
• Someone to make fun of stupid movies with
• Someone to make a cup of tea when we’ve had a bad day/ are too tired to get out of bed/ just don’t want to do it ourselves
• Someone to do a chore we just couldn’t bring ourselves to do
• For me, someone to kill bugs
• For you, someone to sew buttons
• Someone to frequent Ikea and eat meatballs with
• Someone to travel with
• Someone to be loved up with.
• Someone.

It’s obvious which side the scale tips to.