My Blanket and Me

In college I found a pink chenille bedspread on sale at Urban Outfitters.  At $40bux it was so serendipitous because I desperately wanted my side of my dorm to be all pink.  Mostly because I loved pink but also because my roommate- who slurped her food like an animal- hated it.  Buying that bedspread was a win/win situation and I treasured it for years to come. It was warm in the winter, cool in the summer, comforting and fluffy and oh so pretty.

Then I got married.

I got married and my beautiful bedspread was folded and put away-(by me, not by Mark)- only to be brought out in the winter when it was extraordinarily cold in our living room and we were cuddled up watching a movie.  You see, a pink bedspread doesn't sing of matrimony, adulthood, and all things grown up.  But it does testify to a long-gone glory days...staying out til 6am and waking up naked with a grilled cheese under your pillow (true story).  And when you're a big girl you realize you have to choose between the two.  So yes, I put away my pink blanket and registered for a sensible but lovely Calvin Klein Duvet- rationalizing that it was still chic because Carrie Bradshaw had the same one on Sex and the City.  But now and then I miss my pink bedroom, my stack of Harper's Bazaars, and a box filled with all the magazines Adrien Brody had been on the cover of.  A framed photo of the cast of Valley of the Dolls, more journals than Oprah ever had, condoms and candles and crap.  I miss the frivolity and not needing to let anyone know when you'll be home because maybe you won't be.  I miss being young and dumb and too pretty to know the  difference between Private and Federal Loans.  I miss me.

Now everyone cool your pits....The Dixons aren't having a spat, there's no trouble in paradise.  All is well.  But marriage is...well it's a big change.  My Dad once told me marriage was just a piece of paper.  And in many ways, I suppose it is.  But marriage is legal, its binding, it's a big f'ing deal and it scares me with it's intensity like Clint Eastwood.  You have a fight- you better figure your shit out.  Because you can't just pack your shit and go. No way, Jose! And who are you supposed to be? I struggle with this little diddy FO SHO! Am I me? Am I my Husband's Wife? If that's what I am do I have to like football, get acrylic nails and pack lunches? Am I me but now married?  Is it ok for him to be the breadwinner always? What do I contribute? How do I bring Jaclyn Kay Baker into Jaclyn Kay Dixon? Are these two gals the same with just a change of name and address?

I mean....do you understand why I don't sleep much?

Recently I told my Health Coach, Diva Debbie, the saga of the pink blanket and apologized for having these thoughts like I revealed to her that I'd slept with the Gardner.  Like we would ever have a Gardner.  She looked at me like I was dumb.  Not for having these thoughts but for feeling guilty for having these thoughts.  She encouraged me to seek "me time".  To indulge in the things I love (pizza and big macs excluded) and be kind to myself.  I thought "me time" was for Housewives and Mommys. And I don't say that to be a bitch I just feel guilty for being 25 (26 is POUNDING at the door) childless, with no career and still feeling a need for "me time"- but I do need it.  I need to not forget that fun, dumb girl - my Husband LOVES her and wishes she'd stick around awhile- and incorporate her into this serious, emotional woman now and then.  It's time to say 'no' to things that suck- people, attitudes, food, what HAVE you and say yes to seclusion, to "girls nights", to re-decorating my living room if it makes me happy.  WHY NOT!? 

Ya know....I seem to be comfortable telling everyone else that it's "OK" to not know who you are, and what you want to be yet.  I think I'm going to start telling myself.

xoxJKD