As most of you know, I got married recently. I realize referencing that fact regularly seriously messes with my street cred of writing a break up blog, but I promise you readers, I will never lose sight of that sixteen year old girl in me who can recite every word of Jewel's Pieces of Me album thanks to the stoner boy that never liked me back in high school. And by every word on that album, I do not mean that weird song Adrian about the kid who died on the canoe or something.
Anyway, the point of starting this post with wedding talk was to segue into a story about our rehearsal dinner. It was awesome. It was maybe as good as the wedding, because my dress and shoes were a lot more comfortable. But what really made it amazing (aside from the food and the company) was getting to hear our closest friends give the funniest, kindest, and most heartfelt toasts ever. We laughed, we cried, and we even had a few revelations. The biggest one for me was when one of the H bombs groomsmen recounted a conversation where the artist formerly known as boyfriend told him that "I had saved his life."
Hold up. Saved his life? I thought I'd gotten over that unhealthy female urge to "save" a guy. I thought I wasn't into guys that needed saving anymore. I thought I put that kind of behavior to rest in Y2K. I thought what made our relationship work is that we both had our shit together when we ventured into this thing. BUT then again...if I had actually saved him, that meant I had succeeded in doing what most of us ladies have attempted but failed at for years. Maybe I could be the poster girl for saving dudes. (Picture it, me dressed as the Statue of Liberty. A ton of cute emo boys at my feet with the catch phrase: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.)
After the poster girl fantasy wore off, I started to feel a little stressed out of by the savior title. Saving someone's life is a lot of pressure. And it does really short change my in-laws. After all, they GAVE him life and they kept him alive for his first eighteen years and then some. I've only been with the guy for six years. Plus, everyone says you can't change a person, so shouldn't that also mean you can't save them either?
Okay, full disclosure: I didn't actually go into this much over-analysis the night before our wedding. The toast was so touching it brought me to tears and if the H bomb wants to give me undeserved praise, who am I to deny him of that. But the truth is, I'm not his savior. The guy was perfectly capable of taking care of himself before he met me. Yes, it's accurate that I've probably encouraged him to eat better, exercise more, and drink less. But my extreme neurotic ways and rampant mood swings probably cause his blood pressure to spike and that can lead to all sorts of health risks.
Anyway, enough about me. What do you think, readers? Should we all steer clear of the savior act or does love kind of save us all in a way? And did I really just writing something that cheesy? Comment below.