Why I'm Probably Right

When I first heard the term expat I most likely thought that it meant The Artist Formerly Known as Patrick or something along those lines of logical conclusions. And upon marrying an Englishman, I suddenly heard the term everywhere. There were even forums for ex-pats. Oh and apparently I was an ex-pat. And call me dense, but even upon hearing it all of those times, I can assure you that the last thing that came to mind was “ex-patriot”.

I would consider myself to be somewhat patriotic. I mean, not like ‘MERICA! kind of patriotic, but I’m extremely lucky to live here. But I soon discovered that there’s actually a lot of people out there that hold a certain amount of contempt for those who choose to leave their own country, even if it’s for only for romantic reasons.
As in, they take it as a personal slight towards themselves and their own patriotism.
I found this to be a little funny, actually, because they hold an equal amount of contempt for bringing people into the country.
Bottom line? Marry in your own country or you’re not a true American dammit!

Ok, so that’s a thing.

And then I figured, hey, you know what? If my country doesn’t want to be friends anymore I bet England will!
Or not.

And let me tell you, I didn’t find this out through a strongly worded letter. I would have totally been ok with a strongly worded letter.
Instead, it was through a long, gruelling, and expensive visa process. A visa process that makes you strain every bone in your body in hopes that straining every bone in your body will somehow magically expedite the process and ensure success.
One that delves into places that you didn’t expect to ever have to show to anyone, like those late night embarrassing Facebook chats. Yep, hand ’em over.
And worst of all it stresses out an already delicate relationship that’s being maintained while living thousands of miles apart.

But of course, this is all worth it to get to be there in real life to witness that morning deuce that you always hear so much about via text.

For some reason up until this point, I just hadn’t taken into consideration that an island small enough to fit into the state of Florida wouldn’t want our matrimony to contribute to their already overpopulated country.
And you know what, we understand! We really do. Or we did… I think. Hey, no need to be rude. You just called me a what?
Ok, gloves off, England.
Because like anyone taking on a role working with a really good actor who has to play bad cop, there’s a point where you can’t help but start to wonder if they’re still acting.

It’s not personal, we swear – we just have to act like we don’t want you here 😉

But have no illusions; they probably don’t want you there. Even if your English counterpart meets the income criteria.
How come? Because there’s always that one person who ruins it for the rest of us.
In this case, let’s just call them… Frank. They’re no one in particular.
Just Frank.

Fucking Frank.

So, Frank is a lazy bastard.
Somewhere between not holding a steady job and playing Farmville, Frank meets a person on the internet. Person on the internet is from England! They come to meet Frank in Frank’s country because they are foolishly blinded by the seemingly exotic accent. Frank has nothing to contribute to British society and would gladly live off of his new partner’s hard work.

So to make sure that Frank can’t do this, the government creates a few hurdles. First of all, they have to pay around £1,300 to apply for their visa. If the application isn’t successful, they keep the money, and you just have to reapply and yep, you guessed it – pay again.

Second, the government created an income threshold – Frank’s British counterpart has to make at least £18,600 per month and must have been making this much for at least the last 6 months. Tough shit if they’ve had a few months where they didn’t make as much due to being off sick from work or just couldn’t quite meet it. They can either wait to apply when it’s appropriate or apply just to be rejected and surprise – pay to apply all over again.

Then, every two and a half years, as a couple, they have to pay the amount of around £1400 to reapply and show they have still made that much for at least the last 6 months. This goes on for 5 years total when they make their final application. Then, if anything is questionable (maybe one of them wasn’t working for one of the past 6 months), they earn 5 more years of this! Congratulations on losing another £3000! Then, after all that, Frank has permanent permission to work and live in the UK. Did I mention he is not yet a citizen?

If Frank wants to be a British citizen, he can pay even more for the Life in the UK Test and the passport (which also amounts to somewhere around another £1500+)

There are different variations of Frank out there, and such a vast population of people are not Frank. But inevitably, as when anyone ruins things for the rest of us, rules get made to account for them.

So at what point should they start treating people like they might be Frank? Should they do it from the start? Should they do it at the first mistake? Should they do it when they deem fit or just the entire time for good measure?

But DAMMIT I’M NOT A FRANK.

And from the very moment we got married, we’ve been haemorrhaging time, money, and energy trying to prove, that we are actually in love and indeed, not Frank.

So all in all, this process just isn’t easy. You suddenly find yourself in an unwanted limbo between two countries, and completely at the mercy of one that seems to already think that you do nothing but play Farmville in your free time, and the whole time your home country is booing and hissing in the background.
Did I mention that the majority of the people booing and hissing are the ones actually playing Farmville.

Point is, the only way I’ve found to counter any of this is to have an equal amount of steady support from even a select few friends, family, and of course, each other.
And let me tell you, that is really the only way you can make it through this crap.

Oh and fuck you, Frank.

I don’t think many people choose to fall in love with someone who lives on an entirely different continent than them. Or maybe they do, I dunno. But I can sure as hell tell you that I would’ve much preferred something a little less expensive and inconvenient. I mean, as much as we love spending $900 round trip to profess our love to one another I could think of about 10,592 ways to do it for less than $900, and furthermore, could think of even more things that I could use $900 for.
For example:
$900 could pay for 1.8 Xbox Ones. Although I don’t know why you’d want 1.8 of them. Or an all inclusive trip to the Bahamas. Or 3,600 gumball machine toys. Or a 3 year gym membership. Or half of a decent car. Or all of a shitty car. Or a venue for a wedding. Or… get ready for this…. 9 mother freaking years of Netflix.
Point is, normal people in normal relationships don’t have to take into account such ginormous expenses just to have the luxury of doing something as simple as hugging their partner. To agree to be in a relationship as practical as this really begs the question of how many times my mother dropped me in my developmental years. But as they say, the heart wants what the heart wants. And whoever ‘they’ are, they’re right. Even if it’s the emotional equivalent of sticking a knife in a toaster over and over again.

In a long distance relationship there always comes a time when you and your partner decide that this behavior isn’t a healthy way to carry on long term and that it’s time to explore new avenues that don’t involve knives or toasters. As exciting as it can be, two hearts can only take so much of this sort of activity. Then of course comes the realization that in this particular form of relationship, all roads lead to Rome. And in this case, Rome is marriage.

Woah, slow down now. When did we start talking marriage.

The first time I found myself in this position I was 23 turning 24 in a long distance relationship with an Englishman and marriage was the last thing on either of our minds. Though there were plenty of other people my age that had practically charged towards matrimony, I just wasn’t one of them, nor did I see myself considering such options anytime in the near future. And then this thing happens where life says “Fuck you and your plans and what you do or don’t want because THIS is the hand you’ve been dealt. KLOVEYOUBYE.”
Unfortunately long distance, money, and time took it’s toll long before marriage was a feasible option for us, and we mutually ended things. Needless to say, this was an extremely painful and difficult process.

“Wait. Then why are you writing this blog?”

So I like to think I’m an intelligent person.
But then I did this thing where I began speaking to someone who I’d known when I lived in England.
And we started Skyping. It always starts with Skyping, Mel, you idiot. And then eventually upon having an insanely inexplicable connection, we decided to re-meet in person. We convinced ourselves prior to this that this was simply just to meet and figure out what to do next. Except that then, we met, and we saw each other again, and thought, “Well, shit.”

We knew exactly was going to happen next. We knew that it was probably going to be the most difficult and impractical decision we were ever going to make, but also the most rewarding. We knew that we had already had the chance to back off before this shit hit the fan, but we hadn’t. We knew that whatever this entailed was going to be a long and grueling process, but guess what? You’re already in for the ride, suckers.
We knew.

And then, we did the unspeakable. And as of February 11th, 2014, instead of finding myself dating an Englishman, I found myself ecstatically and happily married to one. And that’s the kind of smarts that landed me writing this blog.