High School is History
*****
Edited to add:
After I wrote this post, I read something that made me incredibly angry. Some people who didn't like me in high school for god knows what reason and have never known me other than by name, have decided to hurl insults at me from afar. Talk about being stuck in high school. But, sweetie, let me make this clear: you don't want to get into a bitch fight with me on the blogosphere. Trust me on that.
I write about myself and my family on this blog. I don't write about the daily bullshit of my life - going to the store, scrapbooking, picking up the kids from soccer. Frankly, that bores the shit out of me. If you think I'm self-absorbed because I write about my inner world or that I'm living life as an adolescent because I wrote two posts about high school in the last TWO YEARS, maybe a blog isn't the right place for you. I'm just sayin'.
And yes, I tend to swear a lot when I'm angry. My husband loves it. (-;
*****
Everyone has a gripping stranger in their lives, Andy, a stranger who unwittingly possesses a bizarre hold over you. Maybe it's the kid in cut-offs who mows your lawn or the woman wearing white shoulders who stamps your book at the library - a stranger who, if you were to come home and find a message from them on your answering machine saying, "Drop everything. I love you. Come away with me now to Florida," you'd follow them.
-- Douglas Coupland, Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture
I've been thinking about my personal history a lot over the last few weeks. Maybe it's because of my little walk down Boyfriend Memory Lane. Maybe it's because old friends from my two high schools keep popping up on Facebook or in my email. (Hi, Brian, Katie, Bobby, Christy, Dan, Scott, and anyone else from high school who wanders by!)
This isn't to say that I live in the past. In fact, aside from the last week or so, and a moment of discovery here or there, high school, isn't something that I spend much time thinking about at all. I haven't shared my high school foibles and romances here in Flashback Fridays like so many people do. I haven't posted my prom pictures or reminisced about the crazy things we did after football games and at Katie's lake cabin. I don't write about much of that because I don't think about it.
However, I'm afraid that a few people, one person in particular, after seeing the huge number of posts about high school - yeah all two of them - and the people from it, have gotten the wrong idea. I am not a single post (or two) on my blog. From that small selection it would be easy to decide that I regret something or someone.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Although I'm certainly not a religious person, I do believe that everything happens for a reason. To understand that about me, all you have to do is read my series on infertility. Everything in my life has led me to where I am now, with my family as it is now.
There are people from my past that I will always care about and yes, be curious about. There is one person in particular that someday I would love to sit down and just catch up with, without all that baggage and bullshit that accompanies relationships. Someone I wish I could be friends with. Someone I once loved and now wish all the best in life. Someone I wish I could know would be OK in the end, despite all the bad luck and tragedy.
Does that make any sense at all?
I'm not a threat. I shouldn't even be a disturbance or a blip on the radar because, let's be absolutely clear here: I married the love of my life.
T is my soul mate, my bashert, my gripping stranger. The day I met him changed my life forever. He is my best friend, the best of fathers, an amazingly caring and understanding husband, and the best man I've ever known. He tells me that I give him too much credit, but he truly is my better half.
Together we have two beautiful little boys and will hopefully have another baby if my battered body, and my endocrinologist, will let me. (No, not right now. Mom, Dad, no need to alert the media.)
These three boys, one big, two small, are my world. We were meant to be.
I met T when I was 21. A mere babe. We got married when I was 22 and he was 25. Looking back on our very young selves, T and I both realize how incredibly lucky we've been. So many of the people we know who got married right out of college are now divorced. Some are even on their second marriages. If you think about it, 21 or 22 is really far too young for most people to get married. I didn't know who I was or what I really wanted at 22. Hell, I'll go so far as to say I wasn't really a grown up yet.
T and I will celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary in two weeks. We survived because we worked hard at our relationship. We grew together, instead of growing apart. Still, T and I are just different enough to keep things interesting. I'm a Democrat; he's a Republican. I have a law degree; T has a masters in International Relations and undergraduate degrees in political science and history. Wanna guess what we fight about the most?
Ah, the fighting. I think that's actually what made me realize that T and I were going to be together for good. The first time we had a conflict, he actually fought back.
You see, I'm a pretty stubborn person. I'm also quite the steamroller. And I can be a little intimidating. (Or so I've been told.) I'd never dated a guy before T who didn't just give in or only put up token resistance to my arguments. I don't want someone who either agrees with my every thought or, disagrees but hates conflict so much he just lets me have my way. I've had both of those. Neither is conducive to a lasting relationship that grows. Boooooorrring.
I'm convinced that fighting is what makes our marriage work so well. Some think that any conflict is a sign of trouble. I think that's ridiculous. Conflict is a sign of passion. Conflict is also a sign of two independent-minded people who have to figure out their differences and compromise in a way that works for both of them. A marriage without conflict is boring as shit. A marriage without conflict never grows.
So you see, T and I, we're for good.
I spend about 99 percent of my time on this blog talking about myself (well, it is my blog), my kids (they're so darn adorable how could I not?), and my husband (just to keep him on his toes). The other 1% of my time covers political posts that leak over here from MOMocrats and people from my past. That pretty much sums up what's important to me and in what proportion.
So read my blog or don't read it. Pretend I don't exist and delete me on Facebook. (By the way, ouch. That stung.) But this is the last post directed to you. Perhaps your very own blog post seems like overkill, but this is something that I need to say and obviously it's not going to happen through direct communication. That's too bad, but I'm not going to be dragged into a drama that doesn't concern me.
My blog is more or less anonymous. Some people know who I am because they are my friends or I've let them know. But if you look at my blog, my full name doesn't appear anywhere on it. And honestly, if I'd thought anything I wrote here on my blog would hurt anyone, I wouldn't write it in the first place. If passively aggressively hurling insults makes you feel better, knock yourself out. You're free to write anything you want on your blog, just as I am free to write what I want on mine.
You don't have to read it if it bothers you so much.
I have the kindest of thoughts, wishes and hopes for you and your husband. Whether you believe that, and how you feel about me, is entirely within your control. But don't make me larger than I am. Don't make me more important than I am. Don't make him more important to me than he is. Because he's not.
They are:
He is:
I don't know how to make this any clearer. Got it?
*** No, that isn't our wedding picture. It was taken at T's brother's wedding in January of 2002, I think. Jamie, correct me if I'm wrong!
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