Outside the Box

I apologize in advance for the fact that this post may be:

A. disjointed

B. rambling

C. a tiny bit whiny

D. all of the above.

I are still looking for the box in which I packed my brain. I'm crossing my fingers it's not among the many I slid to the back of the guest room closet, thinking "I'll get to this one after the wedding." I'm pretty sure I tucked it alongside my motivation to create anything even vaguely resembling a healthy, home cooked meal and my self-control when it comes to dessert. At the last minute, I believe I went ahead and shoved my patience in at the top, just to keep everything from bouncing around too much. Come to think of it, it's been a long time since I have seen any of those things.... I hope that box made it off the truck.

We are about 95% moved. There are still lots of lingering things rolling like tumbleweeds through the wasteland of our apartment: an old cell phone charger here, a pile of books there, that old flower pot on the porch that sustained the life of a pretty pink geranium for approximately four days sometime last spring. There is still one closet to empty, some laundry (since we don't have a washer/dryer at the new place yet), and a whole lot of cleaning to do. We realized last night that all the alcohol we own is still in the cabinet above the (mostly empty) fridge. I won't go in to the details of what prompted that realization... let's just say it was an exhausting and stressful weekend.

The new house is an elaborate maze of boxes. Mostly unmarked boxes. Mostly boxes with a truly impressive random mix of small kitchen appliances, pillows, holiday decorations, and remote controls. Mostly boxes that take much more concentrated thought to unpack than I seem capable of at this time. Getting ready for work this morning posed several unique challenges: I could not find a single bath towel, the two matching shoes I needed were in two different boxes, and my hairdryer decided to protest the change in scenery by catching on fire. Hard to be too angry about that when I can commiserate pretty well.

It's certainly not a well-kept secret around here that I hate change and don't deal well when my routine is interrupted. By the time I woke up in a different home, much earlier than normal, had to get in the car and drive instead of walking the hundred yards to the gym, worked out on something that was certainly not my beloved elliptical, missed the sunrise because instead of a beautiful gym with huge windows to the pool, I was stuck in a basement gym with old people and a view of the "sunrise" local newscast (which doesn't even feature a sunrise), and drove back home to a towel-less shower, I was missing my old life something fierce. I wanted to go home. Dan gently reminded me that with time, this new normal would become, well, normal. I know that he is probably right, but I'm still a little skeptical. I'm more excited than I should be about going back to the old neighborhood after work tomorrow to clean the apartment and spend some quality time in my gym that feels like a second home.

Luckily, the most fragile member of our family (debatable) has handled the change relatively well. Poor Toby was seriously out of sorts as the apartment gradually emptied -- he watched the boxes fill with wide eyes and got a serious shock when he ventured out of the bedroom and saw his favorite couch being wrestled through the front door. By Sunday morning, as we packed up the first of two large loads of furniture, he had retreated to our bathroom, perching on the side of the tub and peeking around the shower curtain only when we came into the room to grab another box. I was a little concerned that uprooting his life and moving it across town was too traumatic for the poor guy, but he surprised me -- we got him to the new house last night, and after just a little regrouping time under his happily reclaimed couch, he popped out to explore. By bedtime, he was back to his old self, walking around like he owned the place (which, let's face it, he basically does). Clearly I'm the only one here with adjustment issues.

For now, I will keep pushing through the change and the nostalgia for my sun-filled gym. I will keep getting up half an hour earlier, I will keep driving to the new gym every morning, I will keep unpacking my new closet and learning how to cook in my new kitchen, and I will try to let these things become my new routine. And on the days that all the unfamiliar is too overwhelming, I will drive two minutes down to Dunkin' Donuts for an iced coffee to  remind myself that sometimes change comes with a few perks.

   Love,

    Meg

In Bloom

So apparently my plans to post tons of nuptial brilliance here during my week-of-wedding-crazy actually translates to... silence. It's not that I haven't gotten a ton of things done this week -- everything from (finally) contacting a florist to finding the perfect dress for our "engagement" pictures (which are only about a year and a half late). I've sent a gazillion emails and texts, the bridesmaid dresses are thisclose to being ordered, and this afternoon we will have a decision for the invitation if it kills me. I've even managed to squeeze in a few other things: planning for my best friends' wedding shower on Saturday, talking with the rental agent for a house that Dan and I have our eye on, and even little things like the 8 hours of real work I'm expected to do each day. The only thing I haven't found much time for? Sleep. Oh... and blogging. Oops.

The biggest thing I've been losing sleep over lately is the flowers. Our wedding colors are dark grey (technically pewter) and a gorgeous light green that is essentially impossible to pinpoint (sage? clover? leaf? basil? The only thing we know for sure is that it's somewhere in the plant kingdom.) These colors look fantastic on paper goods, dresses, and even cake... but there is a general lack of pretty grey and green flowers in this world. While options for green bouquets do exist...

... I think I'd rather just carry a stalk of broccoli. Or maybe a cactus.

Instead, I'm looking mostly at white flowers. Specifically white flowers with prominent green stems and large petals -- I am not a fan of little flowers and would much rather have a simple bouquet of 6 larger stems than bunches of little tiny petals. I also know that I want my bridesmaids and I to carry a very small variety, and possibly even just one kind of flower. I love the clean look of a small, structured bouquet and kind of cringe at the ones that look like a field of wildflowers gone wrong.

So I've spend a lot of time on Pinterest (duh) looking at orchids:

peonies:

daisies:

white daffodils:

and my favorites, calla lilies:

 

and tulips:

 

*Important Note: I am very much aware that many of these flowers are out of season in September. In an effort to keep from completely falling apart from stress, I have chosen to pointedly ignore this fact. I am instead channeling my energy into hoping that our florist does, in fact, work magic. And possibly has a good greenhouse up her sleeve.

 

I've also thought about possibly incorporating another color, just to give me a few more choices. Although I'm not such a fan of mixing white flowers and dark red flowers, I do like the idea of using flowers that are white and dark red:

... and I also just love these gold and red calla lilies:

 

 The most intriguing bouquet additive I've found, however, has to be these:

I couldn't find a great picture, but this one gives you an idea of what I just might be thinking for my "something blue":

Just what I needed: another decision to make.

   Love,

    Meg

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I'm feeling particularly crabby today, annoyed by work and money and my busy schedule and the Army and an errant tooth and the clothes I'm wearing and my energy level (did you catch all that? Happy Tuesday!), so I figured it would be a good day to blog about something I don't so much like either. If you're looking for sunshine and inspiration, it's probably best that you come back tomorrow... or at least go outside to read this post.
Let's begin here: I don't deal well with change. More than just "don't like," more than just "not accustomed to," more than just "have a little trouble with." Flat out don't. deal. well. at all. Dread, despise, refuse, loathe, avoid at all costs -- all of those work. Even little tiny changes that wouldn't faze a normal person have a tendency to knock me into a tailspin. It's okay that now you're sitting there wondering about me a little, thinking "how boring!" I know lots of people who can't live without change -- they yearn for variety and get a little hairy when they're stuck in the same place/relationship/routine for too long. I respect these people, I really do, but I can't even begin to understand them. Given the choice between adventure and flux and invariable routine.... well, that's not even a choice for me. I know, I know. How boring. Bear with me though...
The reality is, actually, I adjust pretty well to change on the outside. I can totally fool you into thinking that I'm fine, so basically anyone who knows me doesn't even realize that I have this little issue. It's the inner turmoil that most people never see which leads me to the conclusion that I don't handle change well. It really doesn't matter what the nature of the change is, either: I used to get equally as upset leaving college after two grueling weeks of finals to go home for a much needed break as I did heading back to school after being at home for a month. I was sad to leave a job I didn't actually like. I dread the ends of vacations. I am a whimpering excuse for a human being for at least 2 days after Dan leaves for a long period of training (but never around anyone else).
At the risk of sounding slightly Freudian and blaming my parents (it's really not their fault), I think my extreme hatred of major life changes stems from their divorce. As I can recall, that was the last big adjustment in my life that did not, in fact, produce a massive thunderstorm in my head. I was about 11 when my parents decided to separate and probably 12 by the time my mom moved out and I started to split my time between them, and everyone (parents, grandparents, teachers, friends) watched me make this transition with worried expressions. In the end, though, I managed to prove them all wrong and scaled the hurdle like it was no more than a speed bump. Both inside and out, I emerged from this one apparently unscathed. Apparently.
I have a feeling that the self-composure and strength needed to get through such a big change with the amount of success that I had, though, used up some sort of inner quota. Does anyone know where I can buy a thicker skin and a sense of adventure? With maybe a side of coping mechanism?
I wanted to write about this strong internal objection to change because it is particularly pertinent and growing ever more so. The next year comes with the promise of major changes in almost every part of my life: my job is constantly evolving (sometimes for the better, sometimes not), I'm getting married (don't get me wrong, I'm beyond excited, but still it's pretty big), Dan is leaving for a deployment (hello, living alone), and then there's that little question about law school, a career, and my future. All kinds of big, scary obstacles looming ahead, popping out at the most inopportune times to scare me out of my mind remind me that they're still there. And because I am a wimp, here I sit with my head in the sand, trying hard to pretend I don't feel that tapping on my shoulder. 
So there you have it. Change makes me nauseous, and it's going to be a long year, boys and girls.
For now, it seems that the most obvious solution to this is to go to the gym, sweat a little, and then head home to curl up with the cat, a rather large glass of wine, and a good movie. Please excuse me while I drown my worries in a little merlot.... sorry for being such a pessimistic little raincloud today!

   Love,

    Meg