I'm a damn fool

Whelp, you can't have successes without a few mishaps along the way, can you? My mishap is of the moral/philosophical variety.

We received  a lovely Save the Date email for the aforementioned wedding, and I "Squeeed" with delight (this is not the moral/philosophical failing, though "squeeing" is undignified). But 5 minutes later, I felt so guilty about just how much my nuptial assumptions bent me out of shape, that some of the fun was taken out of it. A lot of the fun. Most of the fun.

See, in the months of assuming an invitation to the wedding of my dreams, I could neatly ignore just how much I wanted it and why. When I thought the invitation would never come, all my emotional baggage hurtled to the front of the Train-to-Denial. The upset wasn't from an invitation unsent, it was from a life unlived. And it sucked.

When I was in college, I had a choice: Pursue my ambitions to move to England and, frankly, become English (via marriage or special dispensation from the Queen or unearthing a torrid affair between my mother and a random Englishman - I wasn't picky). It's the lifelong goal of a die-hard anglophile, which I've been ever since I can remember (age 3?). It's the longest, most passionate unrequited love of my life, and I had a choice to pursue it - or be with my lovely, intelligent, coffee-bearing American boyfriend.

Reader, I married him.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one more traveled by. (How many literary references can I make in a single post? Let's find out!)

Meanwhile, the Bride in question went to England, found a lovely, intelligent, tea-and-toddy-bearing British boyfriend, and has been living [MY LIFE] in Oxford for the past several years. She's well on her way to citizenship, has a circle of intellectual, creative friends who say clever things all the time, and has a local pub. I am all the bad things: Jealous, regretful, sad, angsty, annoyed. I am some of the good things: Proud of her, happy for them, and I enjoy our visits very much.

Now, to be perfectly honest about how horrible a person I am, I need to say this: I have a really amazingly great life, with a ridiculously great husband, a house I adore in a picturesque town with nearly perfect weather. Also, a great job that I made myself, for which my clients appreciate me. I have the time and leisure to paint and garden, I have the money to collect records and old books and hats, and I have a husband who supports me in all these things. I'm happy most of the time.

But staring down that road not taken is like a punch in the gut. At the ripe old age of 30, I finally have one regret - and yet, I don't know that I'd choose differently. My husband is just as hard to pass up now as he was ten years ago, much to his credit.

I should be perfectly happy with what I have. I know this. But I want all the things. I want clever English friends with big ideas; I want a local pub that's like an English version of Cheers; I want to soak myself in British culture like a tea bag in a china cup.

So I'm going to punch that green-eyed monster in the face and channel my energies into figuring out how to get a little of that English life for myself. Here's my working checklist:

1. Make intellectual, clever, creative friends nearby (proximity is important)
2. Travel to England more frequently (hard to do, expensive, but still a compromise)
3. Make more friends in England (because it's lovely to visit friends)

No, I'm not forgetting the most important thing, though I'd love to ignore it. I don't yet know how to not be jealous. But, I can make sure I don't dive into another tailspin of questioning all of my life choices for the last decade (yes, I did that, hence the title of this post).

I have so so many of the things I've always wanted, and I've worked hard and consciously to get them. Someday, there will be a time for England (really trying NOT to make a West Side Story ref here). I know this because I can make the things I want happen. I found camels in San Diego for Christ's sake! Nothing is beyond my power. Except marrying a British husband - because I'm not trading mine for anything.