You're Welcome

If I wanted to, I could make this whole blog into one big, annoying string of posts about how much I love my husband. But I don't.

You're welcome.

Ten years ago I went to Jr. Prom. It was...fine. I honestly have no strong feelings about it either way, and I consider that sort of a blessing. Prom didn't really have the chance to ruin my life forever, because I never expected it to be life-changing, or even vaguely life-affecting. I just expected it to be, and then I would wake up the next day and wash my hair. Which is pretty much how it went, so bravo to Prom.

It seems a bit strange, then, that I still own my prom dress. I never really loved it to begin with, actually. I remember being a little annoyed to be prom-dress-shopping when we bought it because that was the day I took first place at regionals for impromptu speaking and I really just wanted to focus on that for the rest of the day. Who gave a flying fig about some dance when I had just wiped the floor with some kids from Juab? I mean, honestly, I was on fire that day. I felt very good about myself right about then and spending the next few hours trying on dresses seemed like a step in the wrong direction, you know?

I also remember that the dress we bought wasn't my first choice. My first choice was light green, with a cream lace overlay and empire waist. It was very Jane Austen, and I loved it. That dress was at least a size too big for me, though, and they didn't have it in any other sizes. After that I pretty much stopped caring which dress we bought. My mother and sister picked out the dress I came home with. And in retrospect, I think they did a pretty good job. At the time, I could not have cared less. I was probably still reliving the recent debate win or planning my next one. Or reading some dumb novel. My nerd quotient was running at an all-time high in those days.

Anywho, when Mr. Awesome and I made our pilgrimage back to my hometown (Actually, is it really my hometown now? My home is out here now. Is that how you use that expression?) I happened to find my prom dress hanging in my mother's closet, looking very pleased with itself for having survived so long without getting tossed out. So obviously I tried it on, because that is simply what one does in that situation. And wouldn't you know, that thing still fit like a dream. And then there was Mr. Awesome, grinning at me, and saying "You know, you should wear that out dancing sometime." And I was like

DONE!

So that's how I came to be wearing my prom dress last Saturday, ten years after my Jr. Prom, at the Glen Echo Gala Dance. We jitter-bugged, we waltzed, we ate Georgetown Cupcakes, and we held hands on the carousel as our matching ostriches rose and fell while the old-fashioned organ played on. Would you forgive me if I said this was much more romantic than the last time I wore this dress?

This time around I even managed to do my own hair. Oh, and I added those little cap-sleeves that morning (they look a little wonky here, but I fixed them before we went out, promise). Can you believe I actually went to prom in a sleeveless dress? Apparently I was not only a nerd but a skanky one at that.

A bicicle built for two...or just one, actually. One who does not have an actual bum and must use a special seat.

10 mile bike ride, people! Ok, so it's not actually all that impressive. Except, you know what? It is. We hauled the bikes out of our somewhat sketchy bike storage room in the basement of our apartment building (Mr. Awesome's comment on the improved state of that room since they cleaned it out last month: "Well...at least it smells less like urine in here.") and bought a new tire pump and a helmet for the Awesome One and we rode out, into the wild blue! Well, not so wild or blue really. More like a bike lane in a very urban area that led, eventually, to the Mt. Vernon trail along the Potomac River. But it was still lovely. My favorite part is where it goes over a marsh, and the trail is this wooden bridge thing without sides, and all around you are marshy plants looking all...marshy. It felt legit, you know?

Anywho, we rode down to Old Town Alexandria for lunch. Here's a query for you: what is it about Irish pubs? They keep drawing me to them, like a moth to a flame. Even though the moth knows she does not like hamburgers and cannot force herself to eat seafood. Even though the moth does not drink any type of beer, Irish or otherwise. Even though every time she does end up going into one of these oh-so-alluring pubs, she finds herself eating a sub-par salad with questionable lettuce. Still, she is drawn in, helpless to resist. Oh well, at least the Awesome One enjoyed his chicken pot pie.

Torpedo factory? Meh. I mean, you know, modern art and all, but... Look, I work within walking distance of the Smithsonian. You can't expect me to get all verbose about a few water colors when I've got the Peacock Room calling my name, mmmmkay?

And then we sat on a bench next to the river and watched boats float by. Actually, I watched boats. His Awesomeness was totally enthralled with a garbage diving squirrel eating an ice-cream cone. Apparently it was quite the spectacle. I should know, he gave me a play-by-play.

The ride home was not quite so easy or comfortable as the ride there had been. It had it's similarities, though. On both trips I found myself muttering "holy crap, holy crap" every time we came upon a turn in the trail. I can bike 10 miles, no problem, it's just the whole "turning" thing that FREAKS me out.

Our kite, Ferguson, showing the airplanes how it's done. Aw yeah. Fergalicious, baby.

Escapades.

I love the fact that when I got up last night to get some water, my husband's first thought was "Uh oh, she's sleepwalking. Wonder what she's up to? I better go make sure she doesn't hurt herself." Of course, I didn't know that was his thought process at the time. At the time, all I registered was that my very groggy husband was standing in the hall, watching me drink a glass of water, and I though "Huh, he must be sleep-walking."

Now, if we're being realistic, he had every reason to be suspicious. He knows that I have a slight, moderate, every-once-in-a-while tendency to sleep walk. And, okay fine, one time I did rip a doll to shreds in my sleep. Just once. Oh, and that other time I locked myself out of my dorm at the MTC. Oh, and the night I woke up trying to unlock my balcony door with every intention of jumping (No, not suicidal. I was about to take flight. Obviously). And then I guess there was the time I tried to climb my sister's office chair so I could leap from the desk to the bookshelf (too many video games, I guess). Anyway, the point is he wasn't totally crazy to be mildly concerned by my behavior. He was, on the other hand, totally adorable. Standing there with his scruffy face, eyes all squinty in the hallway, blond hair sticking up in that "I'm a sex machine" sort of way (sorry Mom, uhh, pretend I didn't say that. We just play a lot of scrabble together. Nothing else.) If I hadn't been so tired, and pretty sure he was sleep walking, I would have smooched his face right off. And then challenged him to a rousing game of backgammon, or something.

Aaaaaaand that's the end of my small but faithful group of followers. I knew I'd find a way to chase the last of you off eventually.