This is not the first time I have written a blog. While the sentiment I have towards blogging hasn’t changed much (utterly fearful of “baring” too much of my soul and simply unable to decide what to write about), I imagine this experience will be better than and more valuable than the last (#fingerscrossed).
From the age of 18 until just before turning 23, I lived in Sydney, Australia. Somewhere around halfway through my stay, at 20, I met Andrew. Andrew was 26 and seemingly “the man of my dreams.” Techy by day and surfer by night, with an Australian accent to match his year-round tan, how could I not?! – #brainsandbrawns and to say it like an Aussie, “full-on” sex appeal.
We were friends for about a year and then dated for several months before deciding together, with our families’ knowledge, that we should get married. I had a life there, friends, the job I had always wanted and most of all, an immovable desire to stay in Australia. He was getting “up there” in age, and of course we were in love so our decision made sense. At this time, I was 22 and he was 28.
When one person in a relationship in an immigrant, it often means things tend play out differently that they traditionally might. I never had a ring, and in order to get a fiancé visa I had to leave the country, meaning we would spend the month leading up to our wedding apart. Upon arriving to my small hometown, my mother and I immediately started the planning process. One of the main things she wanted to be a part of was helping me to find my dress. On the first trip to a wedding dress boutique I found it. It was the second one I looked at and it had just come into the store, so I was the only person to ever try it on. They say when you find it you know, and I’d say you do.
About three months after leaving Australia, and just days after officially purchasing my wedding dress, I got the call. It was Andrew and he had met someone else. From that moment and in the months that followed I “lost” a lot. I said good bye to friends and those who had become family, I said good bye to my dream job, my lifestyle, my savings (tying up loose ends can be expensive. #immigrantproblems), my apartment on the corner of Danks and Crystal Street, the man I thought I would spend my life with, and most depressingly the country I wanted so badly to be my home. (…but somehow not the *%&! dress – you can still see the “For Sale” ad here.)
As many of us often do, following the break-up I immediately started to do things that I hoped would make him regret his decision. I acted “ok” and picked up hobbies that were well and truly not for my benefit, like was blogging. Being “techy” as he was, he f*ing loved to blog and so, #desperatetimes called for #desperatemeasures (and I was desperate). I knew he’d see it and knew he might even read it and for a while I needed that. I was utterly terrible at it and eventually I realized I didn’t really care if he was reading my blog and ultimately that it wasn’t healthy to care anyway, so I stopped.
I’ve heard it said before that the “first time is always the best.” I for one will admit, I’ve had plenty of firsts that were NOT the best (I think we all can. #sothatswhatIvebeenwaitingfor?! #isthatevenaposition?!). Some of those times are hilarious in hindsight, while others still sting. Unfortunately for me, my first engagement was not “the best,” neither was my first job interview, or the first time I applied to NYU, or (less importantly) my first blog. So, as I begin to blog for the second time in my life, I’m hoping that when it matters, that we get more than one chance to make it work. That it’s possible for the second, or third, or maybe even the fourth time to be the best.