A Wedding: Part Two

An hour before the wedding it rained. Not a heavy rain, but the misty kind of rain that soaks everything in a matter of moments. The kind of misty rain that rests soggy on your hair so that when you shake your head, you look like a sprinkler.

I know this because we were walking the dogs before we dressed for the early evening wedding.

"I wonder if they'll move the wedding indoors?" I asked Ann as the rain dripped off my baseball cap.

"Hard to say," she laughed slightly. Ann does not worry. Even though it was not my wedding, I worried about the rain. It seemed like potential chaos to move 100 people from outdoors inside especially after so many months of planning and gardening.

The color theme of the wedding was, of all things, black and white. This gave me a couple of options for attire, but none felt right. This is always my struggle: How to feel like me in clothes that don't feel like me? Which begs to question why I bought them in the first place, but I think it has to do with the particular situation matching my particular clothes.

Remember, I don't usually go to weddings so my closet isn't filled with wedding options. Instead, I have a closet of work clothes and sweaters, khaki pants and fleece (a requirement for every good Pacific Northwestern lesbian).

So, while I liked my black pants and I even liked the rather low-cut muslin white shirt I wasn't quite sure they were wedding-proper. Still, this is what I chose to wear after tossing out the light blue shirt with the black pants, the blousy purple tencil shirt with the black pants, and the simple black t-shirt with the black pants. I suppose if I'd had a black skirt in my closet that would have all worked with any of the above shirts, but alas, I haven't had a black skirt in my closet since I was 9 and even then I can't be quite sure if I owned a skirt at all.

Once dressed, we pondered the dogs. Despite the walk with the dogs, only Rubin did his business. Ben, reluctant and nervous, had yet to pee even after a bowl of water and already a few hours at our house. We needed to pen him during the wedding and I worried that, after NOT peeing, Ben might decide to do so some other way.

Let me back up a bit. Ben is huge. When people see us walking down the street they often gasp. I'm not making this up. His head is large and his body stately and incredibly long. Older women with small dogs are known to cross the street fearing the large beast they see before them will attack, but Ben does not attack, at least not unless he is continuously and persistently provoked. And even then his attack is a loud bark.

Rubin tried on a number of occasions to provoke him. He'd fling his 25 pound curly body into Ben's back end punching his nose playful in every attempt to get Ben to play. But Ben only plays fetch and only with humans. He avoids other dogs. Goes out of his way to steer clear of them and despite Rubin's taunting, Ben refused to budge. Instead, he'd snarl a bit and then walk away locating the nearest human behind whom he could hide.

I've come to realize that Ben does not think he's a dog. I'm not sure what he thinks himself to be, but it is not a dog. So I worried that penning Ben up for three to four hours while we attended a wedding might lead to him pushing his crate halfway across the new bamboo floors in an attempt to get outside. He's clever that way. At one point in the afternoon, he found himself in the front yard where I caught him shoving his nose against the gate latch in an attempt to open it. I caught him just in time so I wouldn't put it past him to figure out a way to open the sliding glass door use his weight and the bulky pen.

These were my thoughts after he'd reluctantly entered his crate and looked mournfully at our black and white clad outfits as we headed out the door with pesky Rubin at our sides. Because Ben was hesitant to relieve himself, we arrived at the wedding with only moments to spare. Rubin stayed in the car, and we walked swiftly to the backyard where about 100 people stood clad in beautiful dresses and neatly pressed suits sipping wine and staring up at the clouds that only an hour before had dumped a significant amount of rain on the parade.

Before the wedding started, I searched for Steven to let him know that Ben was doing well and comfortably resting at home. Steven had been working hard for months to get the garden ready and to clean up every muddy tennis ball from behind every flowering bush and tree. Ben, obsessed with fetch, must have over a hundred tennis balls in the yard and Steven assured me that anyone would be hard-pressed to find them after his meticulous scouring. Nonetheless, once I found Steven, dressed in a beautiful black satin suit, we both laughed in disbelief as a tennis ball rolled out from under his legs towards me. We have no idea where it came from, but there it was, a sign from dog most certainly.

While I don't do many weddings, this one was particularly tender and moving. Phoebe is the daughter of our dear friends Doris and Steven (Ben's parents) and though Doris found Phoebe's dress to be a bit odd ("It looks like someone just ripped up fabric," Doris exclaimed), Phoebe was absolutely stunning as she walked down the staircase on her father's arm.

And while I don't do many weddings, none have ever made me misty-eyed though last night's was an exception. Phoebe's husband-to-be is named Steve and while he is a rather rowdy, beer-drinking frat-boy, he and Phoebe have overcome some huge hurdles (physical, medical, and historical) to find themselves under a wedding arch that they actually constructed themselves.

So when Steve walked through the garden to take his place at the alter, his eyes already wet with tears, I knew that this wedding just might make me cry. The tears came with the exchange of vows. Doris and Steven were married 40 years ago (same month) and Phoebe asked if she could use the same vows Steven had written for Doris way back in 1967.

I love Steven (Doris, too, but Steven is particularly wonderful in his kindness, sincerity, and wit). After hearing those vows, I gained a whole new respect for Steven not only as a man, but as a husband and a father. He loves his family and would move mountains to secure their happiness. It was apparent in the smile on his face as he escorted Phoebe; it was clear as he held his wife's hand through the ceremony; and it was even more true as the minister read the vows that both Phoebe and Steve repeated.

Meanwhile, through my tears, I'm worrying about Ben. (As for my clothes, I realized once Phoebe walked down the aisle, all eyes were on her and no one could give a hoot about my choices, ripped up fabric of a dress or not. Besides, the man next too me wore a knit shirt visibly stained and pants that reminded me of the 1970s.)

What was Ben doing now? I wondered. Had he peed in his crate? Was he whining and crossing his legs?

I stayed for dinner (tasty Indian food), but forgo the cake, making my apologies to the bride and groom, to Doris and Steven that I wanted to check in on Ben. They understood and thanked me and I raced home worried at what I might find.

At home, Ben was sound asleep in his pen. No urine, no scraping across the floor, no dog throwing himself at the sliding glass door to get out. When I opened his pen, he stretched and yawn and unfolded himself out the door to the backyard where he promptly found the raspberry bushes and peed...like a fire hose.

He was happy to see me. Ben's happy is displayed by his body sidling up against your legs and a continuous circular movement so that his side stays planted on your thighs. Remember, he's huge so I've learned long ago to brace myself for his merry greeting lest I land on my backside a victim of his oafishness.

Ann came home (with a mutal friend) a few hours later and we settled into the night with me sleeping in the downstairs bedroom so I could keep an eye on Ben tucked away in his "safe" spot in the living room. He would have slept the whole night through if Rubin hadn't needed to go out. With earplugs in, I didn't hear him, but Ben informed me of the activity with a swift nuzzle of his nose on my left elbow and he, too, went out and relieved himself again.

In the morning, though I did not sleep as soundly as I would have liked, everyone else did and once again Ben woke me with a push to my thigh and a happy yawn as he spun in a dance at the foot of the bed. We knew he'd relaxed after he peed and pooped in the yard, though he still rejected any food and hung anxiously around the front door until we strapped on his leash and headed down the road to his own house.

He was happy to be home, but never a very affectionate guy, Ben showed his pleasure by finding a tennis ball in the yard and handing it to Steven who obediently threw it across the yard again and again. We all watched from the deck, the sky peppered with white clouds and the air fresh, washed clean by late-night rains.

"When we move from this house," Steven told me, "I imagine the next owners and the owners after that will find tennis balls for years and years to come."

This morning, as we walked Ben and Rubin back to the wedding house I realized that my apprehensions (no matter the occasion) are never as horrific as I imagine them to be. It's probably a lesson I should have learned years ago and though it often repeats its refrain, this particular lesson seems to have difficulty sticking. Ben was fine. I was fine. My clothes were fine. The wedding was more than fine.

I know this. I know all of this, but still, like the tennis balls in Ben's backyard, my worries are buried deep. It will take me years and years to uncover them all.

A Wedding

I normally don't do weddings. I can count on one hand the number of weddings I've been to in my life, and that includes my own. But today we are attending a friend's daughter's wedding and I get to act as dog sitter.

The same dilemma I always face with such occasions I face today -- what to wear -- particularly because I must "manage" the large German shepard who lives at the house where the wedding will take place. To complicate things even more, it is overcast with rain in the forecast making for a rather miserable wedding event --finding dressy clothes that are both warm, waterproof, and resistant to dog hair.

This is Ben, the said wedding dog. It's difficult to gain a size perspective with this dog, but the top of his head is level with my hip bone and I'm 5' 9" tall. You do the math. He has long hair, which makes him look both formidable and gorgeous and underneath his guard dog exterior is a goof who is leary of dogs under 10 pounds. So leary that when walking past them he will cower behind my legs.

Still, Ben is a handful. In a few moments I will go to his house, pick him up, and then walk him home (about an hour walk) hoping to burn off some of his enormous energy reserve. Then I must shower and dress (in god knows what) for an outdoor wedding that may get rained on. Ben will stay at our house confined to his pen and then, after the "I dos" are spoken, I will race home to unpen him and let him get my dressy clothes all hairy.

Perhaps the most difficult part of the whole gig will be letting Ben stay at our house overnight. Where does such a big dog sleep? Anywhere he wants to, I suppose, but I dread a sleepless night as I know I'll keep an ear half-cocked for the sound of his large feet padding their way across the bamboo floors or the sound of his heavy breathing as he rests his head on my belly while I sleep.

No, he is not allowed on the bed though getting onto the bed is a matter of one step up for Ben and then it's queen-sized heaven for him since no one else would be able to fit into the bed once he's in it. Still, he will be able to look at me -- eye-level -- if he so chooses and having never been to our house, I fear he will worry about his whereabouts and the whereabouts of his own bed.

Rubin has met Ben on a number of occasions, but Ben has tended to ignore the puppy fearing both the 10-pound rule (though Rubin is now close to 30 pounds) and the fact that Rubin IS a puppy, full of puppy energy and a willingness to throw himself, head first, into Ben's body. Ben would much rather be with humans, especially humans with a tennis ball and this, too, will make for a curious night. Picture a large dog, a soggy tennis ball in his mouth, chomping its goo onto your bed at 3 in the morning.

Perhaps the wedding is the least of my worries and even my attire can be forgiven since I must woman-handle a long-haired monster before and after the "I dos."

This could be interesting. Stay tuned.

A New Trick

We're out to dinner. Ann smiles at me and begins...

"Rubin has a new trick."

Me: He does?

Ann: Yep.

Me: Well, what is it?

Ann: You'll just have to wait and see it.

Me: Can't you just tell me? (Ann loves to hold back. She's the master of it. I tell her what I got her for Christmas the moment after I buy it. She makes me wait until the last minute...not a clue, not a hint, nothing.)

Ann: No, you really just have to see it.

Me: Will you show me when we get home?

Ann: Nope.

Me: That's not fair. How am I going to see it if you don't show it to me?

Ann: Oh, you'll know it when you see it.


This morning. I return from my walk with Rubin and head to the bathroom for a shower. I'm standing in front of the mirror plucking stiff black hairs from my chin when Rubin pushes the bathroom door open and walks in. He smiles.

Me: Hey buddy.

Rubin: Wag wag, smile smile.

Me: (Thinking to myself) I need to remind Ann to show me Rubin's new trick.

Rubin...without hesitation, jumps into the bath tub and looks straight at me: Treat?

I laugh and lean out the bathroom door to call downstairs where Ann is drinking her morning coffee and reading the paper.

Me: I just saw Rubin's new trick.

Ann: Told you he'd have to show you!

Rubin jumps out of the tub with as much ease as he jumped in and then, as he does every morning, he licks my legs hoping to taste the lotion I slather on after my shower.

Me: I haven't showered yet, buddy.

Rubin: Lick lick, wag, wag


These are the jewels during a crazy time. Work has started back up for me and everything feels out of sync. I have a big cold sore on my lip and I can't find the things I need. I try to make room to exercise, but then, as I get my bike ready to ride, my bicycle helmet falls apart and I can't find my bike shoes. I decide to go to the pool and swim, but I've lost my goggles and can only find Ann's suit, not my own.

Out of sorts.

And in the middle of it all the dog jumps, without coaching, into the tub and smiles at me with such simplicity all I can do is laugh and breathe and move on into the day hoping I find my rhythm.

Vanity

I went for a hike yesterday with a good friend (Melinda) who, like me, is thinking of a mid-life transition. Hers seems bigger though as she's a microbiologist who has powerful ties with various world health organizations. Still, it was good to talk and walk through the clouds and fog around Mt. Rainier hoping for vistas where we actually might see something other than just the wildflowers.

"What scares you the most?" Melinda asked me as we waited for the snowy cap of the mountain to perhaps reappear again.

It was a complicated question. Actually, it was a complicated answer, which we tried to work out as we continued up the slope sweating and panting past yarrow and columbine.

1. I want to be as successful at my next job as I have been with teaching.

2. Success, I have learned, is something I feel externally and despite my efforts, struggle with feeling internally.

3. Therefore, I fear being SEEN as a failure.

This is hard to admit. It strikes of vanity and self-centeredness and all the things I thought I did not value. I don't value them now either, but it feels odd to see them in myself and I struggle to really accept them and not just rationalize myself into believing that it has nothing to do with how other people think of me and more to do with a deep sense of insecurity. I'm smart enough to know that insecurity and vanity are twin sisters.

For instance, next weekend is the Danskin Triathlon. I've signed up to do it, but have struggled with training tending to overdue it to the point of injury. If I decide to compete, I will be swimming, cycling and instead of running, walking. That's hard for me to accept not only because people will see me walking, but also because when the times are posted, my time will read as something vastly different from my previous times. My "failure" in other words, will be public and that fact makes me cringe.

I have conversations with myself about the irrationality of my thinking. No one cares about my time. No one cares that I walk. No one is purusing the time results to say, "Look how poorly she did this year!" Most Americans don't even consider participating in a triathlon and will, in fact, still be asleep when I cross the finish line. Still, the thought of being a public failure (or what I consider to be a failure) worries me and has made me consider dropping out of the race altogether.

This is just a race. Imagine the angst I'm feeling about switching jobs. "She went from being a successful teacher to being a dog trainer?" Or worse, "She went from being a successful teacher to being a failure as a dog trainer?" These thoughts keep me up at night and all the voices I hear debating in my head can't seem to find a solution I can live with.

Until this morning...well, in one area. I've decided to run the Rubin-skin (named for my puppy and my version of the Danskin), which is a race I run against myself...at the gym. I'll swim the half mile in the pool, then jump on the stationary bike for 12 miles, and then walk (yes, walk) on the treadmill for 3.1 miles and call it good. No pressure, no need to be pushing myself. No one to pass me. No one to judge me (not that they were in the first place, but at least this pushes the doubt from my mind). Just me, my body, and my own sense of accomplishment.

As for my career...the school year is about to start. I cringe at the amount of energy it will zap from me over the next few months and the sustainability I'll need to muster to carry on through the year, but I'm feeling as if I'm honing in on a plan.

1. Ask for a year's leave of absence. My only stipulation is that (if) when I return, I get my same job back.

2. Pursue dog training with enthusiasm and vigor (which isn't hard for me to do since I LOVE learning and LOVE dogs).

3. In a year, reassess.

On our hike, Melinda said that her brother once told her that he did not want to be a person who lived an unexamined life. This meant, of course, that the examining might be painful and all-consuming, but in his mind, it was better than living without thought. The trick is, I think, to learn to be comfortable with the tumult of an examined life, to accept that doubt brings meaning to one's life and is not a sign of failure.

For me, that's the difficult part...learning inside that my success is measured not by some unknown standards I perceive (or have fabricated) on the outside, but by the core values I have developed on the inside.

More importantly, I must learn to accept that vanity can drive me crazy as well as fuel my insecurity and therefore is not worth the effort.

Melinda and I both decided, as we sat at a picnic table eating our lunch and watching the clouds move across the glaciers, that perhaps the best way to deal with our mid-life crises was to just get a tattoo and move on.

Not a bad idea though the words of my own brother always stay with me -- where ever you go, you take YOU with you (tattoo or no tattoo!).

The hard work still must be done.

Reunion Summer

Busy. That's the word for this summer. I looked up the other day and realized that in two weeks I go back to work. Argh.

Meanwhile, I received a phone call from my past. It was a former high school classmate asking if I would return for my 30th reunion. She said her name and while it sounded familiar, I couldn't place her face in my memory.

I didn't promise anything. I told her I'd look at my calendar and after hanging up the phone, for a few brief minutes, I contemplated attending. Then I checked out the website she'd provided where all events are listed. There's the gathering at the local tavern, there's the big meal for $60 a plate, there's the memorial golf tournament for a classmate who died this year and much more.

On the website you can update everyone on your life in a section called Current Biographies. I clicked on it and then scrolled down through the names remembering (or trying to) all the classmates with whom I spent four years of my life. With a flash of slight recognition, I clicked on certain names and read their bios at first with interest and then with continued despair. 90 percent of them still lived in Bremerton. Most of them referenced God or The Lord or Jesus in some way positive or glorifying. Many of them were married to each other. All had children...lots of them... and many of the entries, I dare say, were written in all CAPS with an abundance of misspelled words not to mention challenging grammar.

I will not judge...these words ran through my head as every minute passed...and then I remembered my brief conversation on the phone with my former, faceless classmate: Don't worry, she'd said, if you're gray or fat or really changed. We're all that way!

She was so happy about it. She was so chipper. She was thrilled that I would even consider attending.

As I worked my way through the website, memories shot back at me like I was hooked up to electroshock aversion therapy:

The nasty notes on my locker -- queer, lezzie, dyke

That time in the locker room when two of my classmates threw me across the floor and kicked and punched me and called me a freak

The leers in class

The time in Psychology class when someone wrote into the suggestion box that homosexuality was a sin and everyone turned and looked at me

The fight in the hallway when a white kid called a black kid a nigger and I was a nigger lover for being their friend

These were my classmates. Now they'd found God. Now they'd married each other and reproduced. Now they were fat. Now they were gray. Now they claimed to have really changed.

I was doubtful. I still am.

Ann said, "You should go!"

I said, "Why?"

"Just to see. I'll go with you."

"Wouldn't that be a hoot. I wonder if they'd corner me in the bathroom and read scriptures to me this time."

"Probably, but it's better than being beat up, isn't it?"

"There are many ways," I responded, "to be beat up. Verbally is one of the worst."

Funny how, after so much time (and therapy), just one phone call, just one look at the pictures of my past can bring up such doubt and insecurity.

"I can't go," I told Ann.

"Then don't," she said calmly. "How many students were in your class?" she asked as an afterthought.

"A bit over 200 I think."

"How many are listed in the biographies?"

I got her point. "About 50," I smiled.

"So there's 150 or more who, like you, haven't responded. I wonder how many of them are gay?"

Or liberal or childless or out of the state or the country or atheist or Buddhist or Muslim or unmarried or ...