Getting Married (16 page)

M
y life is one giant to-do list, and it only gets worse as December approaches.

Will and I go to Thanksgiving at his mother’s house. It’s Will, his mother, me, and two sets of couples who are his mother’s friends. Dennis and Elaine and John and Peggy all have kids who are grown up and married with new families to celebrate the holidays with, so together we comprise a sort of ad hoc family—the young childless couple and the older couples in their second stage of life.

I expect Will’s mother to forget any hesitation in regard to her feelings for me now that Will and I are engaged, but I don’t get the flood of warmth I was hoping for. Instead, the first thing she says is, “Let’s see the ring.”

Smiling, I offer up my hand, fully expecting to be reassured that it’s gorgeous. Instead what she says is, “It’s big.” And not in an impressed, “Wow! It’s big!” sort of way, but in a “You really are just after my son’s money, you trollop” sort of a way. Oh dear.

Over dinner, I compliment every single item of food in a ridiculously gushing manner, hoping to stroke Will’s mother’s ego. Like me! Like me! I may as well be shouting. The one dish I don’t go near is the Jell-O with fruit and marshmallows. I have never been a fan of Jell-O. There is something about translucent, neon-colored, jiggly food with fruits trapped in it like prehistoric bugs frozen in amber that makes me queasy. Apparently, I’m not the only one. No one else takes any of it either.

“Doesn’t anyone like Jell-O?” Will’s mom asks.

I’ve had three servings of green bean casserole! I want to shout. Doesn’t that count for anything!

“I wonder if Jell-O was on the menu of the first Thanksgiving in November long ago,” Dennis jokes.

“Actually, the first Thanksgiving was in October to celebrate the pilgrims’ first harvest,” I say. “Thanksgiving was first officially celebrated during Lincoln’s presidency, but it didn’t get its November date until FDR. He moved the date and made it a national holiday.” Oh God. They think I’m some uppity know-it-all. Backpedaling is in order! “I was a history major. I retain useless trivia like that.” I try to laugh. Oh God! Please like me despite the fact that I’m smart!

“How did you go from being a history major to being a business consultant?” Dennis asks.

“I got sick of being poor, so I went back to school to get my MBA,” I say. Thankfully, I get a few polite chuckles out of that.

Dennis and John ask me about my work, and then the conversation comes around to the wedding. I decide no one thought I was showing off after all. It was just my overactive imagination rearing up.

The rest of the day goes all right. I’m constantly on edge and I can’t wait for the day when I can relax around Will’s mom to come along, but I expect I’m just going to have to log a lot of awkward hours with her before we get to know each other well enough to feel comfortable together.

W
ith Christmas looming, I try to streamline to the best of my ability. I buy as many gifts as possible online and have them shipped to their future owners, and then I go to the mall and finish buying whatever gifts I couldn’t buy online. I descend on the mall like an attack commando buying up presents and spending money as quickly as I possibly can.

On top of wearing my credit cards out buying Christmas presents, I buy some new sweaters and jeans to wear for my mother’s and sister’s visit. I tend to either wear sweats or business suits, and I don’t do well with fashion that falls between super-casual and business chic. The truth is, I’ve always hated shopping. It seems to me that fashion designers are always trying to foist impractical fabrics in unflattering cuts that will be out of fashion in about twelve minutes, and the fact that they refuse to acknowledge how real women live pisses me off. I feel like I’m hunting for buried treasure trying to find clothes that don’t require lots of ironing or trips to the dry cleaners. Plus, when you have a big bust, wearing a sweater or blouse that is remotely formfitting means walking a very fine line between sexy and slutty. I never intentionally buy sexy tops, but I tell you what, you add a set of 36Ds to just about any shirt, and you’ve got yourself a sexy shirt. It’s truly amazing how wearing a top that reveals just a little cleavage can turn a normally polite and courteous male into a salivating idiot savant who is unable to pry his eyes from my breasts. It is a kind of power to turn men into lust-crazed lunatics, but most men are seconds away from sex-induced dementia anyway, so it’s not much of an accomplishment. I don’t like feeling like merchandise on display, so trying to find clothes that fit my figure isn’t fun. It’s nearly impossible to find fabrics that don’t cling to my ample ass and thighs in a provocative manner and yet don’t make them seem any bigger than they need to be. I think it pains Rachel how little I care about fashion. She’s tried several times to get me to try on cute little outfits that come into her store, but I’m just not much of risk-taker in fashion or in life. I started my own business, which is a huge enough risk that I think I’m absolved from having to parade around in the latest poufy skirt fashion for at least several years.

Probably one of the reasons I’m not big into clothes is that I’m not in love with my body. I don’t hate it either, you understand. I’ve made peace with it. My body is the relative I know I’ll never really click with, but I’ll be as friendly as possible toward it because there is no use fighting. We’re stuck with each other after all.

Though I’m not a fashion hound, it does boost my confidence when I finally find a few cute outfits. Laden down with new clothes for myself and an extravagant array of gifts for the people I care about, I go home hell-bent with the intention of decorating my home in Yuletide cheer as fast as humanly possible. Will helps me wrap gifts, thank goodness, and he puts the entire fake tree up and puts all the ornaments on, and I’m so grateful for him taking over that chore for me that I give him a toe-curdling blow job in thanks.

I remember when I was a little kid, putting up Christmas tree decorations and baking Christmas cookies wasn’t a chore, it was fun. It was something to look forward to, but now I always feel so busy that there’s no time to admire the pretty ornaments or twinkling Christmas lights. Right now I’m just too tired to enjoy that sort of thing.

My life isn’t all work, though. One Saturday night, Will and I go out to a nice dinner and then go hear a band play in a dark, smoky bar. I stand in front of him and we sway to the music. He puts his hand on my waist, his fingers touching my bare skin beneath my T-shirt. I can feel his hard-on pressing into my ass. He slides his fingers up my shirt to my rib cage, just beneath my breasts. I take a quick look around. No one seems to notice or care what we’re doing. It’s dark and everyone is just enjoying the music, watching the band on stage. Will inches his fingers a little higher. My nipples harden in anticipation of his touch.

For an hour or so we keep this up, him grinding his erection into my back, me grinding right back, exchanging covert and not-so covert gropes, driving each other wild with lust.

I turn to face him and say into his ear, “Wanna go home and fuck?”

He nods yes.

We drive home, whip off our clothes, and kneel on the bed, facing each other. We move together in a frenzy of searching kisses and passionate touches. Then Will lowers me so I’m lying on my back. He slides his fingers inside me, then out, then circles his finger on my clitoris, faster and faster…

My orgasm is powerful, but he doesn’t stop, his fingers keep going, sustaining my orgasm for what feels like hours, but can probably only be a minute or two until I’m breathing so hard and so fast I feel like I might pass out from too much pleasure.

“Fuck me,” I say.

There is nothing better than that moment when he first plunges himself inside me, that first delectable thrust.

It’s times like these I’m astonished at my body’s capacity for pleasure. I may be out of shape and overweight, but god damn if my body isn’t an amazing thing.

Will and I are tubby, wrinkling, balding, orgasm
machines
.

The next morning when I wake up, Will is already awake and out of the shower, padding around our room with a towel wrapped around him, his curly hair not yet combed and thus springing out in a Troll Doll sort of look.

When he turns to fish something out of the dresser, I see his back, which looks like it’s been attacked by a saber-toothed tiger.

“What happened to your back?”

“You happened to my back,” he says with a smile.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“In a good way.”

I smile. I am a sexual animal, even if I can’t pull off wearing a merriwidow without feeling like an idiot. He wraps his arms around me. I feel safe and cherished and happy.

I
t turns out I don’t have to go to Germany, at least not for a few months, but in the middle of December, as if I weren’t stressed enough, I have to go to California to meet with WP executives in their office there.

There is something so exhausting about have to wake up at an ungodly hour to catch a flight and then have back-to-back meetings all day. It’s a productive workday, but I feel like I’m running on fumes.

At the end of the day, I go back to my hotel room and change into my pajamas. I pull the sweats out of my suitcase and the plastic bag of speed tumbles out. My heart goes crazy—I can’t believe I transported illegal drugs across state lines. Moreover, I can’t believe I transported illegal drugs across state lines—and didn’t get caught. I examine the baggie for several seconds, then put it down again. I had completely forgotten I had the drugs…obviously I wouldn’t have taken it on an airplane with me if I had. I wonder how much I would even take? I know nothing about drugs. I wonder if it would really give me more energy like Sandy said…

I shake my head at the ridiculous idea and hide the baggie beneath another pair of pants and try to find something else to occupy my thoughts.

I look around the room and realize I feel lonely. I check my email, willing contact from other human life. I send out emails to everyone I know in hopes of drumming up some email in return.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

So have you given up on dating entirely? Are you still even looking at the personals?

I order in room service and stare at my computer screen, waiting for Gabrielle to get back to me. I send an email to Sienna asking what’s up with her, and an email to Will telling him I love him. I flip through the channels on TV, refresh my email, turn off the TV, refresh my email, pace around the room, refresh my email. I give Will a call, but he doesn’t answer. His phone is probably downstairs and he’s probably upstairs playing computer games. He checks his email frequently, but I’ll have to wait until he isn’t busy saving the universe from bad guys before I hear from him.

Finally my dinner gets delivered and as I sit at the desk eating, I get a return email from Gabrielle. I feel like a little kid at Christmas, I’m so ridiculously excited to have human contact, even in electronic form.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

I think I’ve given up on the personals. You know how you can select what age range you’re looking for in a date? Every guy who’s around my age says he’s looking for a woman age nineteen to whatever a year younger than he is. So if he’s thirty-four, he wants a woman who’s between the ages of nineteen and thirty-four. So here I am, a thirty-three year old, and I feel ancient. The personals are too depressing.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

That is creepy. I certainly don’t want to be dating a nineteen year old when I’m thirty-four. I didn’t want to be dating nineteen year olds when I was a nineteen year old. I bet when they put that age thing in there, it’s not a hard-and-fast rule. Will’s first wife was older than him. You never know who you’re going to fall for. You need to be open to the possibilities.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

I was open to the possibilities and look where it got me. I dated a woman for a few weeks, we slept together a few times, and now she’s essentially stalking me and telling me I’ve broken her heart. It’s so hard. I know exactly what she’s going through. I was going through it myself a couple months ago. I think it’s easier to break up with guys because you can get yourself into one of those, “All men are scum” moods. You can’t do that with another woman. So, in case you’re thinking of dating women, you have been warned…

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

I don’t think Will would appreciate me dating other people, but thanks for the insight.

Before Gabrielle can write me back, I get an email from Sienna.

To: eva@lockhartconsulting

From: [email protected]

I gave up coffee in my quest to make my stomach happy and live a pure existence. But I have to say, life is so much less interesting without coffee. I feel calm and capable and my belly is no longer distended, but I’m sleepy and the colors just aren’t as bright. I was only drinking one cup a day, but it was mine and I liked it.

I finally got a desk chair that’s not meant for a seventies kitchen table! It’s amazing. My life has changed. You see chairs every day, but I don’t think you can really appreciate them until you’ve spent eight hours a day for six months fashioning pillows and blankets and broken cardboard shoeboxes to create the guise of ergonomics. (Why couldn’t I have at least found an
unbroken
cardboard shoebox to prop my feet on?)

How are things with you?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

I’m glad to hear you’re making bold strides to ensure your ergonomic health.

As for me, I’m stressed. Really stressed. I’m stressed about work and I’m stressed about the wedding. I’m not spending as much time with Will as I would like. On Saturday morning, we woke up and made love, and I actually kept looking at the clock and at the ten-minute mark, all I could think was, you’re not done
yet
? Come on! I’ve got things to do! A house to clean! A wedding to plan! A major merger to work on!

Afterward, Will wanted to hold me in his arms and just snuggle for awhile. At first I was like, are you kidding me? I don’t have time for this. Then I reminded myself why it is I’m killing myself to plan this wedding in the first place. Because I love Will. Because he makes me laugh. Because he makes me feel safe and loved. I actually had to remind myself that Will is the most important thing in the world to me. More important than a stupid wedding or a stupid merger. Does that make me a horrible person? Anyway, how’s your life?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

You’re not a horrible person. You’re just human.

As for me, life’s been okay. It turns out that working as an assistant to a young adult fantasy author has transformed me into a fantasy geek. I have to read all of my boss’s books so I can answer fans’ questions, so I take her books with me wherever I go. I realized just what a nerd I was the other day when I caught my reflection in a department store window. I had my hair in pigtails and I was wearing a bright orange poncho, a backpack, and sneakers; in my hand I carried a small book with a blue dragon on the front and a young girl smiling up at him as if to say, “Together we can do it!” I couldn’t help but feel that people were looking at me and judging me, or just feeling very sad for me. “Oh, that’s so sweet, she’s in her twenties and she’s just learning to read. She’s
so
strong.” Or: “Oh, that’s so sad; she must be mentally disabled.”

I had a stand-up spot at the Patio the other day. I was so excited for the show. I felt really solid about my material. I practiced sufficiently over the weekend instead of cramming it in on the day of a performance like I normally do. But then the show got started late, and I started yawning and then there were four awful comics in a row, and then one good one right before me, and I felt myself fading. I tried to boost myself up and focus and remember back to when I was on the speech team in high school, when I would grow sleepy and tired of all the dramatic performances and think about what I had to offer and how I wanted to make the other people in the room not want to sleep anymore. It didn’t work. I got solid laughs, but I didn’t feel connected to the audience. It’s like having sex without the orgasm. It’s nice, but, come on, we all know why we step up to “the mic” in the first place. Release! There is no peace without RELEASE.

Last weekend was really cool though. Mark and I house-sat for Mark’s aunt and uncle, who have this gigantic compound in Rye. They had a karaoke machine and Mark and I sang all the best cheesy songs to each other for about two hours straight. Then in the morning we bounced on the trampoline until our brains felt like mashed potatoes. Trampolines are the best toys EVER. I can’t wait until I’m incredibly wealthy and can buy a trampoline. I’ll put it in my living room. (I’ll have vaulted ceilings, obviously.) Mark and I felt so amazingly in love. We couldn’t get enough of each other—we swam, we sang, we had lots of sex and cuddled and laughed and talked. What a gift that we have each other in this life.

I’m desperate for some sleep. I love you. I know it doesn’t do any good to tell you to relax, but try anyway, okay?

I think about Sienna and Mark singing karaoke and bouncing on a trampoline. Will and I would never be silly and goof around like that. When did I become so hard-working and goal-oriented that I lost my ability to have fun? I used to be a fun person, I swear. Don’t get me wrong, I was never the life of the party, but I remember doing silly things with friends when I was younger. Like in college, I remember having a huge crush on a guy who lived in my dorm. My girlfriends and I would do childish things, like making crank calls and writing him elaborate love letters in various colored inks and then slide them under his door. Being on the guys’ floor was strictly illegal, so that proves just what a risk-taking party animal I was. Okay fine, it doesn’t. The truth is, I’ve always been a hopeless good-girl geek. But my antics were silly and fun and I remember laughing a lot with my girlfriends and having a ton of fun.

How do I regain my ability to be silly again? (Even in a G-rated way?)

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

When I was driving into work this morning, I had a very erotic daydream about you…I kept picturing slipping your panties off, spreading your legs, and sliding my tongue inside you. I kept glancing up at your face, and watching you while I touched you…I was hard all the way to work.

I love you.

His email puts a smile on my face. Thank goodness for email enabling me to keep up with everyone even when I’m all alone out here on the road.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

I love you, too, Will. I love you because of your sexy guitar-playing. I love how smart you are. How kind you are. How sexy you are. How you always make me laugh.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

What I love about you:

—that you like my friends (and that they like you)

—your ambition

—your taste in books and art

—that you’d want to spend your days and nights with me (I am still astonished, frankly)

I love:

—the feel of your nipples between my fingers and their taste on my tongue

—to fondle your clitoris while I kiss the sighs straight out of your mouth

—the fact that just thinking about touching you makes my cock hard as a rock (like it is right now)

I smile. Then I think about how much work I really should get done for my meetings tomorrow. I think about the baggie again.

The truth is, there is a part of me that has been wanting to try it since Sandy gave it to me. I’ve been trying to kid myself, but I would have gotten rid of it right away if there wasn’t at least a part of me that wanted to try it out.

What the hell. I’ve always been such a good girl. Maybe it’s time that I broke a rule or two, at least once. Just this once.

I retrieve the baggie from my suitcase and I put a little powder on my finger and snort it. It stings my nostrils a little. For a few moments I don’t feel anything. Then I feel sort of a soft, warm feeling. A general feeling of contentedness. It’s a wonderful feeling. I take a little more.

I feel energized and happy and raring to go. It’s a feeling I could get used to.