and because of that fact, i've been planning my wedding since i was about 8 years old.
i spent my middle school years trying to bully boys into liking me (which, for the record, worked) and my high school years changing my signature to "mrs. dave matthews." in college, i registered for a theknot.com account with my best gay, just so i could have access to the inspiration boards and color swatches. we picked a far off date, laughed, had a drink, and forgot about it.
flash forward to this afternoon, when my inbox pops up with "ONLY 200 DAYS TIL YOUR WEDDING" in the subject line. oh, good. the literal countdown has begun until my sham wedding to a dude loving dude. this will be great for my mental health.
so of course, i spent the rest of my afternoon thinking about marriage. and after all my obsessive plotting, list-making, mental venue scouting, and using the phrase "well, when i get married..." i really have no idea who i'll con into marrying me. or when it will happen (if ever. CUE PANIC ATTACK). but i want to make one thing clear: he better be an architect. not a doctor, not a lawyer. an architect.
it used to be "the doctah." jewish grandmothers would have a conniption convincing you that a nice MD was the way to go for an ideal mate. they used their noggins, they made bank, and mainstream media had us believing they all look like this:
"i'm going to cure your brain tumor solely with my piercing blue eyes."
but you know what? doctors work long and odd hours. they don't make bank for almost a decade out of medical school. and student loans are expensive as sin. plus, the lifestyle of little sleep, cafeteria food, and the danger of holding human life in your hands takes the above stud and turns him into this:
"the last boob i touched was during a mastectomy."
but an architect. that's a different story. architects are creative and scientific. they visualize something in their brilliant little heads, and then they bring it to life. architects have swagger, they know how to socialize, they travel the world, and at the end of the day, they want to build you (ME) your dream house.
i've been questing to bag an architect since i heard the story of how frank lloyd wright built a house for his mistress as a testament to his love for her. for him, words failed. he wanted to put into the earth the way he felt about someone, so he built her a sanctuary. what a panty dropper! what they don't tell you in that story is that frank's manservant got all lizzie borden on everyone, grabbed an axe and murdered the mistress, her two small children, and several of the men who helped build this lady her malibu barbie home in the woods. so, i realize that not all architects will provide me with a happy ending. some might just provide me with my own e! true hollywood story.
collectively, as women, we don't know what we want. we want a man's man who can fix all our broken shit, and fire up some burgers on the grill in the summer. but we also want someone to hold us, to tell us we're beautiful while looking us straight in the eye, and someone who lets us rest our heads in the center of their chest before we fall asleep. we're asking a lot.
so i'll make it easy: all i want is an award winning architect, never married, to woo me over dinners where we discuss the bold vision of louis sullivan, how daniel burnham might have been gay, and how chicago is the true heartbeat of the built environment. we make blueprints for a house in the country, and an architecturally significant restoration of an apartment in the city. we marry under the arch to the old chicago stock exchange, and we spend the rest of our lives envisioning, and building, and bringing this city to a new level of beautiful.
...takers? i've got 200 days until theknot.com informs me that my wedding day is here, so i better get looking.
