Please Happy

About 50 Jackson Hole women gathered at a bar this evening to suck on ring pops, drink champagne (a case of it) and oggle at the engagement rings of Seven of their closest friends.

Apparently there are men in Jackson Hole who want the white picket fence? Or at least the lifelong ski buddy.

I only knew two of the brides personally, but the shmoozing and giggling brought me closer to the rest. I watched as one bride opened her care package of lingerie, a Husband Summoning Whistle and a Maternity Leave book (she’s not pregnant yet). I talked with a 28-year-old wedding photographer who, after four years, still delights in the luv she senses in her couples. And I talked to married women about The Secret to a happy relationship.

“You find the right person and you make it work,” said one 39-year-old, who has been married 16 years. “He makes me laugh, he’s really fun. And, I found a guy who was really committed to the idea of Us, but also committed to the sanctity of marriage.”

One of the Brides To Be told me that her man “is nice and gentle and can tolerate me.” She also said she knew within one week of their first date. “I was talking to him on the phone on Christmas from my parents house,” she remembered. “And I thought to myself, ‘I’m going to marry this guy.’ That was Christmas 2005.”

Another betrothed babe is moving from her high-powered job in Jackson Hole to San Fran for her man while her friend, also engaged, is making the opposite cross-country run. The seven girls sported big pastel plastic rings clamped to their wrists or dangling from equally plastic necklaces. And they all flitted about from one friend group to another, sipping from plastic glasses, gushing about their bright, partnered futures.

“All these wonderful women are engaged,” said the mastermind behind the engagement event. “Why not have a group party for everyone? I say, ‘the more the merrier.’ Spread the love. Seriously.”

Stories have surfaced, complaints have been filed, articles have been written.

We, holders of Purple Tickets, were not alone.

It’s taken me over a week to write about the experience of flying nearly 3,000 miles from Jackson Hole to Baltimore for the Inauguration of President Barack Obama.*

And not getting in. The gates never opened. We were stuck for hours between two concrete hotels, in a mob, stepping on ornamental bushes and jumping in place to stay warm. We watched four ambulances wheel through the crowd while we moved less than 20 feet in three hours. We watched people crane only to see more people craning to see. My cousin Christopher stood lookout on the side of hotel repeating to the wondering sea of wool hats and flags: “No One Is Moving.”

Still, we smiled at our fellow countrypeople, high-fived strangers, took pictures of the Obama bling. And just before the speech started, we escaped the unmoving mass and ran to a hotel where the concierge – an obvious Obama ambassador – gave us patient and smiling walking instructions to a friendly bar that let us in so we could watch The Oath and The Speech on television. So, yes, I flew across the country to watch the inaguration on TV. But, the hugs, the tears, the squeezes and smiles from strangers – and family and friends – all In It Together made the plane flight, the drive, the crowded metro and the van all happy and promising and hopeful and fun.

Snapshots from the Event:

- Drove down Monday in a minivan with Dad and three new awesome friends to pick up tickets from Senator Enzi’s office.

- Cavorted around the city, danced to Argentinian music, took pictures of Obama bling, hugged strangers on the Metro, went to a frat party where high heels and sweatbands were the uniform of choice.

- Five of us – me, Dad, cousin Christopher, Terry Troia who came down from Staten Island where she runs Project Hospitality for homeless people and her friend Gonzalo – slept on the floor at my brother’s best friend from high school’s apartment.

- Woke up at 5 a.m., took the Metro to the mall where we realized Purple Tickets had to go up, through a tunnel and around the capital. Walked. walked. walked.

- Stood in line en masse for hours. Dad left twice to pee. Christopher and Dad said they would leave by 10:30 a.m. if we still weren’t moving. I teared up and said I’m Not Leaving.

- The crowd surged out of the shade and into the sun of an open square around 11 a.m. Then a standstill. At 11:30, we walked against the tide. Found the bar. Drank beer, watched the screen, cried as Aretha Franklin sang My Country Tis Of Thee.

- Hugged, cheered, bought Obama pins and t-shirts.

- Met up with our van friends who had been denied at their Blue Ticket gate and had spent the ceremony walking from crowd to crowd to empty street to make their way back to us. They were all smiles and stories about high-fiving giant raccoons, dancing in the streets and singing loud.

- Danced, cheered, sang, breathed, froze, smiled and walked five miles back to the crowded apartment. We had come all this way and seen nothing in person. But, we were still there. With the people. And we all totally totally won. Obama is our president! Yeeow!!

*Just writing President before Obama gives me the happy shivers.

My postcards to myself come from all over the world. They’re usually reminders: “Tell Mark and Anna that you love them” or “Smile!” Sometimes they describe scenes, such as eating a papaya salad with salt after fasting, sweating on a 10-hour dusty bus ride, shoulder to shoulder with loogie hockers or watching a gecko grab a fly on a quiet morning.

And they all start the same: Dear Lauren

And all end the same: Love, yourself

My family makes fun of me. You got another postcard for you today, huh? my Dad asks.

But, it’s a pretty incredible thing to send a note to my Future self. And equally incredible when I’m back home to receive a note from my Then self. I tend to forget what I wrote, and the scene or description brings me back to that captured moment.

When on my Outward Bound course 10 years ago, we wrote letters to ourselves while on our three-day solo contemplations. We received them six months later. And that letter stuck with me. I talked about the food I missed from home, the sound of the Maine ocean hitting the cold rocks, the sleek cormorants and clunky lobster boats, and pink sunsets and roaring tides. And I talked about the beauty of not knowing the time, of being truly present.

When in the Arctic, I had the girls write themselves similar letters. I sent them a few months after we got back to civilization.

This summer during my spiritual Odyssey, I sent myself a few. One from Cambodia, a few from Vietnam. Most recently, a German Christmas card from France.

I love the handwritten letter. I love the Time Traveling that happens from letter writing moment to letter reading moment. And I love reliving that moment again and again and reminding my future self to slow down and notice. Slow down and listen. Slow down, grab a pen and write. On paper with ink.

One of the craziest parts of Tuesday’s Inauguration was the Obama Brand. I wonder if Barack himself realizes that the streets were lined with more vendors than I’ve ever seen outside Camden Yards, the Eiffel Tower and the Colosseum combined.

I was touched by the crowds, inspired by the message and overwhelmed by the stuff! Sparkly bags, mini Obama Foam Senate seats, Matrix posters with Obama as Neo and Michelle as Trinity, flags, buttons, hats, scarves, socks, stockings, wallets, forks, water bottles, magnets, snowglobes…. Any item you can imagine was there, stacked on a table, piled in a truck bed, shoved in a bin. And each item had both Obama’s toothy, perfect smile and a price tag stamped on it.

Here are some pics of the Obama Bling from the streets of Washington DC.

(And yes, I proudly wore my HOPE sweatshirt. And yes, I bought a T-shirt that says “My President! January 20, 2009.”)

In addition to all the teeth (smiles) and the tears (joyful), one of the constants at yesterday’s Presidential Inauguration was the amount of thumb typing on Blackberrys, iPhones and Samsungs on and around the National Mall in DC.

I received over 100 just that day, asking me how it was. I haven’t had the words to respond yet. But, I will.

As I did for election night, I’ve recorded some of my faves. For me, November 4 felt like manic ecstatic shock and January 20 felt like proud, calm, overjoyed happiness and smiles.

More to come on my personal experience in the cold and craziness. For now, the texts.

1. Blow Barack a kiss for me!

2. I’m crying and I’m not even there!

3. What a great inspiring message. Gives us hope.

4. Hope that was beautiful for you. … It was for me.

5. Is it amazing? I’m watching it on MSNBC and I can’t stop crying.

6. This is Happening.

Per Dad’s request, we watched Ravens’ game at Randy’s house, a house with a giant flat screen in the basement, a giant flat screen in the den and a mini TV in the kitchen. This had the effect of total house surround sound. You could pee, grab a beer, refill on homemade macaroni and still hear the action (which, that day, was a lot of disappointment for Baltimore’s team). One of the only rooms safe from the barrage of whistles, cheers and shit-talking was the Christmas tree room.

I went in there for a breather and found my little sister Grace practicing some dance moves. If only the Ravens played as well as Grace dances. They’d for sure be playing The Cardinals next game.

Football with Grace from Lauren M. Whaley on Vimeo.