Well, this is scary
This morning, I declined an inquiry for a blog collaboration because I'm on deadline. For my book.
Let's hang on for a second and investigate this statement, can we? Please?
Awesome, thanks.
Several aspects about this are crazy to me:
1. Having random people email me and asking for a collaboration because of my blog.
It may be few and far between, and most of them I ignore or decline for a variety of reasons (a not insignificant one being that I have no idea what to charge, and I have this fear that I will say a number and have them laugh in my face, asking me who I think I am). But still, the fact remains, once in a while someone will ask (and actually use my name, not the generic 'Dear madam or sir'), and it's nice.
2. I've announced to a stranger that I have a deadline for my life-long dream, writing a book. It may be a self-imposed deadline with zero people actually waiting for it, but if you don't take yourself seriously, why should anybody else? You have to believe in yourself first, and then others will follow.
Just in case you're under the mistaken assumption that I have mastered this mindset and can back it up with a wealth of personal experience, I have to disappoint you. I have huge difficulties with this, so I'm definitely not telling you something I'm any good at; on the contrary, I'm reminding all of us that this is what we should do, and try my hardest to practice what I preach. Can we do it together? It's always easier to do it with someone else.
Let's all believe in ourselves and take our ambitions seriously, deal? Deal.
Awesome. You rock!
Part 3 of this statement is the deadline part. Yes, I set myself a deadline! Without it I would never finish, and even with it's questionable. The deadline is rapidly approaching; it's June 24, the day when I fly to Paris to meet my sister. I want Paris to be my reward for finishing the book, but will I make it? Writing has been really hard over the last few weeks. Some days, every word is a struggle, and I delete more than I keep. But I guess that's normal?
My best guess is that I'm almost 90% done. The current word count is over 64,000, with a goal of about 80,000.
To make the whole book thing even more real, I've decided to share the first chapter with you. Aaahhh!
Ever since I met my husband, I wanted to write about our love story. Not only because it's so precious to me, but also because we risked everything to be together. We had a difficult and controversial start, but we couldn't not try it. It was the scariest and best thing we ever did, which is kind of how I want to live my life.
Meeting him not only changed my life, it also taught me a lot about belonging and finding myself. For the longest time, I felt like I didn't really belong anywhere; but with him, I feel at home everywhere. Love is the best, most powerful force in the world. I couldn't think of anything more important to write about.
I hope you will like it! Here is the opening chapter of "Let's pretend this is normal":
Prologue
January 10, 2005
I can feel their eyes boring into our backs. Most of them haven’t seen him before, and they’re understandably curious. They’re trying to get a better look at his face, to guess his age.
‘Gosh, with that grey beard, he must be at least - in his forties? Or even older? How old is she again …?’
Fortunately for them, the registrar is just getting to that.
“We are gathered together here in the presence of these witnesses to join this man, Richard, born July 12, 1954, and this woman, Miriam, born October 10, 1979, in matrimony, which is an honorable estate, and is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly …”.
We have lost our audience. Instead of listening, they’re busy calculating the difference between our ages, and within seconds, they all get it: twenty-five years. Yup, a quarter of a century.
We can feel the collective intake of breath. The shock. The indignation. Why is she doing this? How dare he?
The service doesn’t last long. After we have signed on the dotted line, congratulations are in order.
I wouldn’t exactly call them heartfelt: The smiles are too wide, the hugs stiff, the words forced. Everybody seems uncomfortable.
As it turns out, this will be the theme of our wedding: Awkward as hell.
For one, it’s Monday morning, 11:30. Who gets married on a Monday morning? People who aren’t serious about marriage, that’s who. At least that seems to be the unspoken agreement of our wedding guests. I can practically see them taking bets under the table about how long this will last; I suspect nobody is giving us to our first anniversary.
But no matter, the farce has begun, it must be completed. Let’s just get to the end of today, shall we?
Our wedding party of sixteen is headed to a nearby castle. Calm yourselves, people; it sounds grander than it is. Germany is lousy with castles, and this one isn’t the grandiose Disney-version with turrets and high towers and a castle moat; it looks like a large house. But it’s pink! Besides, the owners are customers of my parent’s produce business, so at least this charade of a wedding makes good business sense.
Before we head inside for lunch, it’s time for pictures. We don’t have a professional photographer, but my uncle offered this morning to snap a few photos, an offer I’m ridiculously grateful for. Without him, there would be no record of my wedding day – and the thought occurs to me that this was maybe intended by the wedding planner, i.e. my mother? But no matter, Uncle Randy is here to the rescue.
He directs us to line up in front of the pink castle. The pink goes well with my outfit, because if you think I’m wearing a white wedding dress, think again. I’m dressed in a $79 mail-order suit: A skirt-and jacket number in pink and purple boucle, ‘Chanel-inspired’, as my mother described it to me. The skirt is so short it barely covers my ample bottom, and I spend much of the day pulling on my skirt in a desperate (and useless) attempt to make the skirt appear longer.
Why would I have chosen a skirt that makes me so uncomfortable, you may wonder? I’m glad you asked: I didn’t.
I may be the only bride in the free world who not only didn’t choose her wedding dress, but didn’t even see it (or try it on) until the night before the wedding. Talk about living dangerously! Being out of the country at the time of wedding planning, my mother graciously offered to take over the job. Ridiculously grateful to her for seemingly having accepted my decision, I handed it all over: The location, cake, menu, and yes, even the dress. Except, it’s not a dress, it’s the aforementioned suit that’s on the tight side, and that I didn’t see or try on until twelve hours before show time. What would I have done if it didn’t fit? I have no idea. There was no plan B. I stuck my head in the sand and hoped for the best, and this is what I got.
We line up in two rows: Rich and I in the front and centre, the wedding guests surrounding us. Two down, my ex is standing there with his little daughter in his arms, my niece. In between us is my sister, his wife. Remember the theme of the day? Exactly.
The rest of the day passes slowly. After the pictures, we file into the gorgeous dining room. It looks much more like a castle than the outside would suggest: Whitewashed vaulted ceilings, wood beams, a pretty lace tablecloth and lace napkins on the table. We are served champagne, which is desperately needed. However, it being noon on a Monday, people only have one glass, which is far too little to create a festive atmosphere.
We sit down for lunch. The food is excellent: You can choose between ‘halibut on a bed of fresh spinach, accompanied by porcino mushrooms and potato gratin’, or ‘leg of hare à la mode in a prune sauce, accompanied by wine-soaked pear in a cranberry sauce, red cabbage (this is Germany, after all), steamed dumplings topped with buttery crumbs’, or ‘pork medallions with a gorgonzola cheese crust, accompanied by pasta primavera and fresh seasonal vegetables’.
Conversation is halting. Our voices echo loudly in the stone-dining room, amplifying every word. It makes people self-conscious. The only thing worse than the intensified voices is when they die down, which happens frequently. Whenever the awkward silence descends, I desperately search for something to say. After all, it’s our party, and I feel responsible for its success or failure. However, making small talk has never been my strength, and I usually have to suffer through it until someone else breaks the silence.
After lunch, we are at a loss for what to do next. We have to stick around for afternoon coffee, which will include the cutting of the cake. But how to fill the two hours in between? There’s no music, no entertainment. We have exhausted our meager conversational skills.
In desperation, we decide to go for a walk. I’m wearing high heels, and I can’t walk in them, but anything is better than to sit around the table for another minute. I teeter unsteadily down the steep hill in my cheap shoes, accompanied by my mother, aunt and grandmother. It’s January and I’m freezing in my skimpy outfit, so after ten minutes or so we turn around to head back inside. Uncle Randy asks Rich and I if we want him to take some photos of the two of us, and we readily agree. That fills the rest of the lull, and by the time we are done, coffee is served.
By four o’clock, the torture is finally over. I’m sure our guests are as relieved as we are. We say our goodbyes, and then we ride back in my parent’s car to my parent’s house.
Rich and I plop down on my bed in my childhood room and turn to each other. Then, we both burst into laughter simultaneously.
“This was the worst wedding I have ever been to,” I gasp, tears running down my cheeks.
Rich nods his head in agreement, unable to speak.
When he gets a hold of himself, he says: “You know how they say that rain on your wedding day is lucky? Let’s make a new rule: The worse the wedding, the better the marriage.”
“If that’s true, we will have the world’s best marriage!” I counter happily.
Looking at him, so handsome in his black suit and cowboy hat, bright blue eyes and the attractive silver beard, I finally feel like a bride: Like I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
Chapter 1
Sucker punched
February 2001
I pull around the corner towards my parent’s house. It’s been eight weeks since I have been home, and I didn’t want to come this weekend. But they insisted. “We need you,”, they told me. “It’s a family business, you are part of the family, you have to pull your weight.”
I glower over the top of the steering wheel. I hate this small town. It’s depressing the hell out of me, with its square stone buildings, nosey neighbours, and never-ending complaints of the locals. These people wouldn’t know how to be happy if it hit them in the face. They enjoy being miserable. Well, guess what – so do I these days. I’ll fit right in!
As I approach my parent’s house, I suddenly see a car. His car. My heart starts to beat faster, my palms are getting moist, and I have butterflies in my stomach. He is here! At my house! I haven’t seen him in three months, giving him the space he requested, despite it almost killing me. But the misery of the last three months is suddenly forgotten. He is here to tell me he is ready for a real relationship! That’s why my parents insisted I come home! I’m so giddy with relief and excitement, I laugh out loud. I haphazardly park my car behind his, then pull down the visor and check my appearance in the little mirror. Damn, I look like a mess. No make-up, hair greasy and tied carelessly into a limp ponytail. Shit. I rummage in my purse for mascara or lip gloss, already knowing that I won’t find any. I’m not the make-up carrying kind of girl, and over the last few months I have completely given up on my appearance. I wonder if I could manage to sneak into the house without them seeing me, and take a quick shower? Almost immediately I dismiss the idea as impossible. Our dog will bark and give me away as soon as I open the door, and anyway, I’m way too impatient to see him. I yank out the elastic, brush my hair, and tie it up again more tidily. This will have to do.
After one last deep breath, I exit the car. My heart is beating so hard, it almost hurts, and I wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like. No, it can’t be. I’m only twenty-one, slightly overweight, but generally in good health.
I’m stalling, because suddenly I’m terrified to see him again. “Come on, you can do this”, I encourage myself, and wipe my sweating palms on my jeans. I briefly close my eyes, and picture him: Red hair, green eyes, crooked smile. Looking at me quizzically, like he is trying to figure out what I’m all about. Tall. He makes me feel small, which is important to me, since I feel huge most of the time. A broad grin spreads over my face, and with a burst of bravery I open the front door of our house, and step into the hallway.
They are in the kitchen, as I knew they would be. Our entire life takes place in the huge, farm-style kitchen, with its tiled stove and the bench wrapping around it, the best place on cold winter nights. The large table seats eight people comfortably, not that we need it very often; we rarely have guests. But tonight, we do, and as our dog Roxy starts barking excitedly, I push open the door to greet her – and him.
For a moment, everything looks as expected: My dad is sitting in his usual chair, a glass of wine in front of him, his head turned towards me, with his customary hesitant smile on his lips. My mom sits across from him, smiling widely with too many teeth and, I notice in confusion, slightly hysterically. But I don’t pause to wonder about it, because my eyes find him. He is sitting across the room, facing me, and my entire being floods with happiness. He has finally decided to come back to me! My broad grin starts to fade as I notice the expression on his face. He stares at me unsmilingly, with an expression I can’t place right away. Anxious? Nervous? Sad?
All those emotions are part of it, but the main one hits me a moment later right into my solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me: It’s guilt. And as my eyes slowly trail to the left of him, I suddenly realize the source of his guilt in one horrible, excruciating moment: My sister. My younger sister Emma is sitting next to him, entirely too close, looking at me defiantly. As my gaze travels down, its comes to a screeching halt at their hands: They are clasped together. The boy I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for months, my sort-of-boyfriend who was supposed to be my real boyfriend just as soon as he was ready, is holding my sister’s hand.
The blood is rushing so loudly in my ears that I can’t hear. I have no idea if anyone has said anything yet. Time has slowed down, burning this hideous moment into my brain for the rest of my life. While my eyes take in the terrible tableau in front of me, my brain has a difficult time catching up to what’s happening.
“Wh-wh-what’s going on?” I stutter, looking at him desperately. ‘Please, please have a simple explanation’, I implore him silently. His face is bright red, but he still hasn’t said a word.
“Hello Miriam!” my mom says loudly, and I flinch. I have completely forgotten about my parents being in the same room. It seems that hours have passed since I first entered the kitchen, when it was less than a minute. I turn to face her, hoping for her to shed some light on the situation. “What’s going on?” I repeat, louder this time and without stuttering. “Why is he here? What are they doing?” My voice keeps rising in time with my rising agitation.
“Calm down,” my mother says firmly, which is exactly the wrong thing to say. Has anyone ever calmed down when they were told to? No. It has the opposite effect, like pouring gasoline on a sweltering fire. I can feel hot tears stinging my eyes, and I explode.
“Why didn’t you call me? What are you doing here in my house? AND WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU HOLDING MY SISTER’S HAND?” I scream at him. My mother opens her mouth in protest, and I turn on her. “Did you know about this? How long has this been going on? WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME??”
I turn on my heel and run out of the kitchen, up to my room, where I fall onto my bed and break down, sobbing uncontrollably.
Never in my life have I felt so betrayed. Such a fool. I’m more embarrassed and hurt than ever before. How could they do this to me?