"underage" and engaged

Being 22 and engaged in Boston kind of feels like being 16 and engaged in the south. A lot of people here seem to think I'm crazy and young and crazy young to be getting married. Sure, I know a few married folks and one engaged folk in my BU program, but they are all either a few years older or from Texas.

On the other hand, there is this:

Out of the seven things on our fridge, four (FOUR!) are save-the-dates for weddings this upcoming summer alone and one is a thank-you note from a wedding we attended on New Year's Day. Plus, last summer Brian and I attended no less than three weddings in four weeks. Every single one of these nine couples are people we know from Millsaps, all who hail from below the Mason-Dixon line. The brides and grooms are all between the ages of 20-26 and the weddings are scattered across Florida, Mississippi, Tennessee and Louisiana.

Welcome to the south, y'all.

Marriage, and the age people get married, is a huge cultural difference between the south (and other parts of the country, like the midwest) and the north. And obviously there's no hard and fast rules here, but there are definitely geographic trends. In big cities here up north, it's completely normal for people to date ten years or more before deciding to tie the knot. A thirty-five year old woman is by no means an old maid like she might feel in the south. Everyone up here is so busy working on their careers (and paying sky-high rent) that getting married often gets put on the back burner for a while. 

Whereas southern people loooove to get hitched. Or at least feel that it is more important to do earlier in life. There is more of a family focus in the south, more of a traditional (although some probably say old-fashioned or backward) family structure and lifestyle. Senior year at a college in the south is like proposal-palooza. One year, a sorority at my school had over half the girls in its graduating class either engaged or married. 

Of course, both of these trends lend themselves to stereotypes – the frigid Yankee workaholic vs. the Southern sorority girl who came to get her MRS degree. 

As someone who has lived in both worlds (plus partially grew up in Utah*, a world of its own when it comes to family structure and marriage), I find myself appreciating aspects of both. I would never have thought I would be engaged at 22 years old, but now I can't imagine it any other way. It should be all about the right person and the right time – not rushing to marry simply because you've been together the allotted amount of time (southern people!)** and not staying unmarried because you feel too young and/or just want to make a bunch of money (northern people!). Sometimes I do feel young to be doing this, but usually it feels just right. 

When we are married, Brian and I will have been together over five years (and known each other almost six). We will have survived a year of long distance and a couple years of living together. We have a cat! We share all our financial responsibilities. Marriage will just be a little bow on the life we are already living. 

A shiny little bow with diamonds, of course. 

* I'm not Mormon. EVERYONE asks that when they find out I'm from Utah. Literally. Everyone. 
** I'm definitely not saying any of the aforementioned weddings are doing that, but I've seen it happen. And probably had it wondered about me up here in the north. 

spring's all that

In the city, spring is kind of like that really hot chick who was just utterly fugly as a child. I'm talking bad teeth, terrible haircut and maybe she even smelled weird, like stale crayons or something. Then one day, bam. All the boys want to take her to homecoming.

(Why yes, I did try to reference terrible hot teen makeover movie She's All That in my title. Thank you for noticing.)

Here me out: Most people would probably say spring is the prettiest season, what with the green and the flowers and the tiny baby animals everywhere.* However, if you live in an urban climate that gets any reasonable amount of snow, the transition from winter to spring is easily the nastiest, ugliest time of the year. 

actually this doesn't look THAT bad... but just wait

Think about spring turning to summer. Life gets hotter, different plants crop up, everything seems brighter. Or summer to fall: the leaves turn gorgeous colors, the air gets crisper... Even fall to winter is beautiful in a stark way. 

But winter to spring? By this point, with no new snowfall to renew the white blanket, all the snow has turned a gritty, black-flecked (and likely pee-filled) hue of gray. Worse, garbage that has literally been frozen for months is being unearthed for the first time since November as the snow/ice melts. Instead of snowing, it rains, which just creates huge, trash filled puddles in between the slush that still remains. 

if only more people hadn't missed the can in the fall...

So yeah, spring. Girl's got a great personality – even these mid forty-degree days we've been having feel amazing – but she's still stuck firmly in her awkward years. I can't wait for her to lose the braces, finally discover clothes that flatter her (secretly bangin' all these years) body and get a really good haircut. I wonder if Freddie Prinze, Jr. is doing anything right now...


* I'm more of a fall/winter girl myself but I see their point.

embarrassment on the T

You can always tell the true Bostonians from the tourists on the subway. True Bostonians are usually clad in black and listening stoically to their ipods while reading or just generally avoiding all eye contact. They ride the train without stumbling, surprised by nothing.

At this point I consider myself a pretty legitimate resident of this city, but the subway ride is one thing I just can't quite master. I've got the black and I can avoid eye contact and I don't fall when it stops suddenly. I don't even have to look at the posted charts to know how many stops there are until my destination... No, it's the ipod that gets me.

It starts innocently enough. I stare out the window with the buds in-ear, stoic as any Bostonian. But by the Copley stop I'm nodding my head. By Arlington I'm mouthing the words. By Park Street I might accidentally be making noise or slip in a dance move or two. Before I know it, I am full-on shaking my ass to Cee Lo Green and people are staring.

I need to work on this.

snow day

It's a snow day! Yes, apparently even in Boston, with its jaded, snow-capable (or perhaps snow-weary?) citizens and tough, burly weather equipment, there comes a storm this city cannot quite cope with. Basically all schools and most workplaces are closed as the beautiful white dust falls on and on.

Brian (who is working from home due to the weather) and I took it upon ourselves to walk to the nearest open pub for lunch and some Guinness to get us through the storm. On the way back, being buffeted with wind and ice, Brian finally admitted, "You know, for someone from Mississippi, this is absolutely ridiculous." (Except he totally said something else besides "absolutely" - something that rhymes with "schucking"). 

And he's right, it is absurd. We went out to explore the snowy neighborhood when we got up this morning and by the time we had returned to our front stoop, barely 15 or 20 minutes later, our footsteps had been completely erased by newly fallen snow. But you know what? I love it. Having grown up in Utah, it's just in me. Every winter of my childhood there was a beautiful thick blanket of snow covered the entire city. When I was a kid, we brought two bags to school during the winter months: one was our backpack and the other was a duffel bag of snow gear. Every recess involved putting on snow overalls (usually big puffy ones in neon colors), snow boots, a big coat, gloves and a hat. Then we'd play in the snow, making forts and having snowball fights and god knows what else. Then we'd come in, remove our frozen outer layer and continue school. No big deal.

It's so weird to me that Mississippi kids never experienced this. "If the weather was bad enough to need any of that [snow gear]," Brian said on our walk, "we just wouldn't come to school."

As he's completely right: in ten years of school in Utah, I think we had three - maybe four - snow days, and on one of those we actually drove to school before we found out it was canceled because it was Ash Wednesday. In eight years of school (high school and college) in Mississippi, I think we had more than ten days off, including a whole week off in Jackson when the water pipes across almost the entire capital froze and burst. And those "snow" days more often than not ended up being a light dusting of snow that melted by 4:00 p.m... Mississippi is simply not adequately prepared for inclement weather. 

Which is why I'm so happy to be where I am. I love having four full seasons. And I love snow. And I love this city. 

Let's look at the snow!! These are from this morning around 9:30 a.m.:

Penny says, "What's all that white stuff?"

workers clearing the walks

Bay State Road

And these are from our return from lunch, around 2:30 p.m. (note the knee high and higher snow drifts):

compare this bicycle with the 9:30 a.m. one 

hip-high by the post office

hibernation nation

Well, here we are. It’s officially that time of the semester where the weather, my motivation level and the time change all intersect, causing my urge to hibernate to skyrocket.

Living in Mississippi for the last several years, my hibernation instinct never really came out due to the weather staying absurdly warm (on and off at least) until January. But last fall I spent the semester in Ireland and it emerged full-force. I would leave an afternoon class in the pitch-dark and all I could do was retreat into my little room in our apartment to eat special k and watch tv on my computer.

Here in Boston I find myself succumbing to it again. November rolled around, the temperatures dropped, it started getting dark at 4:30 (thanks a LOT, daylight savings) and now all I want to do is stay home and hide with Pennycat under the fluffiest comforter I can find.

It’s just so much WORK. Getting dressed no longer involved throwing on a cute dress and Toms and running out the door with wet hair. Cute dresses would cause my skin to freeze and possibly shatter like ice. Toms must be worn on top of thick woolen socks, largely altering their entire fit. Wet hair will cause me to immediately contract pneumonia and spend the next (and last, obviously) 48 hours of life sneezing and coughing and wishing I had taken time to put a hat on… Put away is the sorority uniform of Nike shorts and large tshirts. Put away are the strappy sandals and jorts and tank tops and other things that can be described as "easy breezy."

Instead I must take the time to blow dry my hair, find approximately 43920480 layers to put on until the only skin visible is from my eyebrows to my chin and shuffle out, alternating between sweating inside and shivering outside. It's MUCH easier to just remain in my jammies, moving as little as possible to avoid allowing any of the warmth in my little cocoon to escape.

Here’s the thing... I really do like cold weather. Growing up in Utah instilled in me a love of crisp, snowy days where everything is blanketed in white and kind of soft and muffled. A snowy winter wonderland is one of the most beautiful sights to me.

But until I see some snow on the ground rather than this wind, cold rain, bluster and general dark/damp depressingness, you can find me under the covers, eating toaster waffles to fatten up before falling asleep for the next three months.

Note: I wrote most of this post yesterday when it was dreary and rainy and somewhat terrible. Today it is sunny and almost even warm (almost) and I feel kind of dumb posting this even though my overall opinion hasn't changed. Mother Nature is laughing somewhere, like "You want to bitch about ME on your blog?!? Suck on this! And tomorrow its going to be 40 degrees and sleeting! And then perhaps the next day I'll send some 90 degree weather and you can sweat to death in your  non-AC-equipped apartment!! Hahahahhaha! You SHOULD feel dumb!"