Confessions Of: A Semi-Failed Maid Of Honor

This life according to Lu: confessions of a semi-failed maid of honor.
Image                               “be silly. be honest. be kind.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson

Growing up, there were three things I knew for certain: brussels sprouts were not to be trusted, my older sister was going to be the next Queen of England and I was to be her Maid of Honor. Although my relationship with brussels sprouts has since changed for the better, minus the fact that they have an “s” that is never pronounced–what is that about–it was Kate Middleton and her gorgeously perfect taste in pea coats who crushed my sisters’ royal potential. But, luckily, said position remained mine. I was her Maid of Honor, a divine birthright, I suppose, or perhaps an expectation, yet deserved after years of playing ‘wedding’ and holding floral bouquets, aka whatever was in the garden, read: dandelions.

 After my wonderfully awkward and semi-failed, notorious experience I feel obliged to advise all ladies being considered as MOH-worthy on what not to do.  Because lets be honest, expectations versus reality regarding this job title varies vastly, a detail I wish I had known prior to July 27th, 2013. So, cheers, from a slightly dishonorable, overly intoxicated maid of honor, to all current MOH’s, wedding season shall commence. Do you promise to take these vows? (Really…you should.)

 I solemnly swear to eat the food. Please. I sacrificed sweets for nearly three months prior to the wedding to fit comfortably into my gown. By the reception, I was looking at the bacon covered scallops and crab-cakes like they were naked Ryan Gosling on a toothpick. But, I was worrying senselessly over orating my speech; I skipped every deliciously juicy, colorful plate because the butterflies in my stomach insisted I wasn’t hungry. Vow to eat the food because a-it’s delicious, b-it’s been paid for, and c-you physically need it, you’re exhausted and running on adrenaline. Eat—a verb I never imagined I’d dispute with.

 I solemnly swear to drink the wine, but not too much.  While I was frantically worrying over my MOH speech and saying RIP to that roasted asparagus lying scantily on top of a perfect sear of steak, I befriended the Cab Sauv. The wine was multi-talented, so magically capable of continuous restoration to the rim of my glass. Drink, absolutely! It’s a party after all and you’re there to celebrate, but do not overindulge. You’re also there for support—do not be the girl who can’t remember the bouquet toss. (Whoops). RE: I solemnly swear to attend all wedding festivities. If you spend the night with that Champagne bottle, said vow could be broken (i.e. Sunday brunch). 

I solemnly swear to not make out with the best man/groomsmen
. Sure, he’s cute and hey, you’ve kissed before—why not?Because, he’s more trouble than the boy who walked in Taylor Swift’s life (and she knew it, too) and that infinity pool of white wine you accidentally gorged. Remember: your attention should be dedicated to the bride and making sure you don’t accidentally pull a Lea Michele kind of nip slip! I solemnly swear to keep the bridesmaids and wedding guests in check. One of the cousins is getting weepy and grandma is apparently lost. Do not let said stress affect the bride. MOH, duty calls! Note: grandma is a priority! Do you take the listed vows above? If yes, then yay, you shall succeed in the plight. I now pronounce you an honorable maid, which lacks slight credibility when the source is from an admittedly botched MOH, but still.
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Confessions of: A Curious Ex-Girlfriend

This Life According To Lu: All My Exes Have Tattoos.

I have no appropriate pictures for this, so naturally I'm going with a cookie. Oh and love. obviously.

I have no appropriate pictures for this, so naturally I’m going with a cookie. Oh and love. obviously.

           ‘Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting
past.’
–Jack London

“What does it mean?” I asked Jeremy, running my fingers through my middle part. I called him gem, with a J.

Xīwàng, hope,” he responded, offering the translation for my limited understanding of Mandarin.

“Oh,” I said, unsure of why I felt disappointed. He turned over his shoulder, as we both stared at the chinese symbol permanently engrained on his back. “I like it.” I lied. “Did it hurt?” I wondered, considering when I went with my best friend, Morgan, to get hers the year prior, she giggled the entire time while the man drew a paw-print on her left butt cheek. Still, I held her hand anyway.

“Yeah, a lot. I’m glad you like it, baby.” He smiled, displaying his lime green braces, which made me smile, and I reciprocated the awful neon that encased my teeth. It had been the most romantic gesture my dorky, 8th-grade self had ever received from a boy. It looks like I have gum stuck in my teeth! I explained to my friends, a hasty rubber band choice I regretted immediately. A few days later he came to school with the same color and grabbed my hand as we walked to assembly together. Now we both do. A few weeks later we were already texting each other on Nokia bricks words like “luv” and the cliched “u r my world.”

My first LUV and first ex to get a tat.

While the following is by no means a compilation of all the men I’ve dated…’cause that’s quite a list, it includes the milestones. And Jem, he was the first.

My second first “real love,” it’s in quotes because not really, was Ludwik, though I called him Lou-chi-oh (pronounced exaggeration of the OHHHHHH). We dated for a year in a high school, which equated to the length of time I lived in several cities, my best friend completely, though we aren’t even friends on Facebook, anymore. He now has at least a half dozen tattoos, one of which is a bumblebee. Ironically, my AIM screenname was bumblebeelac (I liked the rhyme, okay!), although there’s absolutely no correlation.

My third significant ex to make this list is Eli, although we had the most messed up relationship of all time. But I had such a crush on him throughout my duration in Germany and we had an on-off relationship that involved way too many other people. Now his arms are completely sleeved with various designs. *Also, we’re still buds, so perhaps this admission is nullified.

My actual first love was my college boyfriend, who I dated nearly two years. He has some symbolic saying of his family’s name written across his back.

Most recently, my boyfriend of two years, Tom, whom I lived with, got a tattoo of his grandparents on his chest. I am pleased that this purchase was post-breakup.

Hey, I’m not here to judge because bumblebee’s and chinese symbols? Quite feminine if you ask me, but you didn’t. Interestingly, I hate tattoos. Perhaps this relates to my inability to make plans and my lack of permanence. I get bored of my favorite sweater after a month, I can’t imagine living in the same place for two years and thrive on change. How could I ever value something that is eternally stained on your skin? And yet, the majority of significant men in my past are decorated in ink. Maybe it’s cupid’s way of trying to spite me, or maybe I seek consistency more than I realize.

Either way, this is my life and I think it’s weird that all my exes have tattoos.