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It was the mid-eighties, and the biggest thing to rock my world was the newly released Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie. I can still remember the epic moment when the box was placed in my hands and how incredibly beautiful she was, dressed in her flowing peach gown and shimmering bodice. Her hair was golden, perfectly styled, and adorning her neck was an exquisite diamond-like necklace, fit for a princess. She deserved a special spot on my shelf, and Workout Barbie took a hit, moving out of center spot.
My mother would often complain, “Presley, why don’t you play with your dolls like other girls?” Well, dear mother, other girls had Barbies with god-awful haircuts and missing shoes, and rings were a rare commodity.
I had to have everything perfect.
So you can imagine my horror when I arrived at school the next day and every girl with their new Peaches ‘n Cream doll had short-cut bobs, mismatched shoes and zero rings. I decided then and there that my Barbie deserved the best. So I planned the most epic wedding event of all time.
Barbie was finally going to marry Ken.
I invited all my friends, and under the big oak tree in my backyard, they tied the knot on that sunny September day. The guests oohed and aahed. I overheard my friends commenting on how pristine my Barbie looked, ‘fresh out of the box,’ and then there was the groom. Ken looked ravishing with his light grey suit and pink pocket square to accentuate his tanned skin and plastic comb-over.
The thrill and excitement of this perfect day was forever engrained in my memory, and at the ripe old age of seven, I knew exactly what I wanted—I wanted to get married to my Mr. Right and live in our double-story dream house.
I had a plan.
The problem with plans is, the second they fall apart, you have absolutely no idea how to cope.
Fast-forward twenty years, I was certain that Mr. Right just sat at my table. His name was Jason Hart, tall, handsome, with the deepest blue eyes—if you stared long enough it was like staring into the ocean.
We met at a mutual friend’s wedding, thrown together onto the shameful singles’ table in the back corner of the ballroom. All we needed was a neon sign flashing “sad and pathetic single people looking for a good time.”
This time, however, the party was at our table. It was a fun group—we were all in our mid-twenties, looking to get plastered on some free booze. Jason was seated directly opposite from me and it was impossible to ignore his flirtatious smile. My ovaries were having a celebration, the party was on, drinks were served and damn, we would make very cute babies together.
Lucky for me, Jason turned out to be the sweetest guy you could possibly ask for. It was the perfect story to pass onto our grandkids. Met at a wedding, love at first sight, and who could forget the moment I caught the bouquet? Okay, so maybe I was pushing fate. You know, by stepping on another woman’s foot to dive for the bouquet. Bouquet catching should be declared a sport; it’s every woman for herself out there!
The moment Jason grabbed my hand and asked me to dance, I thought, Yes, he is Mr. Right. He is my Ken, minus the plastic comb-ov
er of course, and together, we could live happily ever after in our dream house.
We went through the relationship milestones, moving in together after a year, joining our bank accounts in an effort to save for our first apartment, and last year on our fifth anniversary, he popped the big question and obviously . . . I said yes!
My parents loved him, his parents loved me. It was just one perfect moment after another, and to curb my OCD (which had intensified over the years), it was all going according to plan. Until the day I had lunch with my mother and mother-in-law.
Hours were spent going through magazines, interviewing wedding coordinators, immersing ourselves in various fabrics, and all the while, alarm bells were ringing in my head. Miss Plan-Out-Her-Whole-Life had absolutely no clue what she wanted. Every magazine page that was thrown in front of me showed a blushing bride staring lovingly into her groom’s eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time Jason and I looked at each other with such love. We were comfortable. But comfortable wasn’t perfect. I loved him, it was impossible not to love him, but there was this tiny bug crawling within my gut telling me something wasn’t right. I prayed every night that this mysterious bug would grow into a beautiful butterfly and remind me what we were all about.
Yeah, that butterfly never showed up, and that damn bug had sunken its teeth in even further.
We both got stuck in this routine. Working till late, ordering take-out almost every night, sex on Fridays, and the Saturday trip to the Laundromat. The spark that had ignited that day at the wedding had died down to a dwindling fire.
I craved more. Not sure of what that was, I tried spicing things up by cooking some nights in, a quick rendezvous to the Hamptons for Valentine’s Day—and maybe I should have fought harder for us, but we both agreed our perfect relationship had run its course.
“I just don’t think it’s working out, Jase. It’s just . . . I can’t explain it,” I spoke solemnly.
Sitting on our sofa dressed in a neatly pressed tux (having just returned from a wedding), he leaned back and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. I, on the other hand, didn’t want to cry. This shouldn’t be about emotions. Rather, it should be a rational decision between two adults.
“Are we doing the right thing, Jase?”
His voice croaked, but quick to compose himself, he smiled and (as always) managed to say the right words.
“We are just so comfortable. I didn’t . . . never mind.”
“No, tell me, you didn’t what?”
He hesitated at first, then opened up, attempting to relay his emotions. “I didn’t think we would fall into this rut so quickly. You hear all the time that couples get married and the relationship becomes a routine.”
Remaining quiet, I gave myself a moment to get my words right. “You expect raw and wild sex at random moments, dinners at fancy restaurants, making out at the movies, but it’s not like that.”
He chuckled heartily. “Presley Malone, I will sure miss your ways. I’m hoping the next relationship I have won’t shoot me for placing my black socks in the same row as my white.”
