Fearless (T-Minus 442 Days)

** Please follow me on Twitter, if you’re of the inclination to tweet - @500daystil30 **

If you have realized one thing by now, it may be I like lists. Pre-30 bucket lists, Christmas appreciation lists, To-Do lists for life; I’ve done them all. Even when there is a distinct lack of forward progress, it at least makes me feel like I am organized and at least making an effort. So it should probably come as no surprise then that I also adore making lists of New Year’s Resolutions.

I try to keep it to a manageable number – fewer than five – and I try my darndest to avoid the cliché lose 20 pounds; though let’s face it, that’s always a goal. Now, as I look back on the promises I made to myself for 2010, I realize I actually did reasonably well at attaining all – or most – of my goals. I competed. I became a frequent visitor to the library. And I cleaned out (some of) the clutter from my life.

Those are all things I certainly hope to continue, but at the risk of being completely overwhelmed by lists, I have opted to make just one Resolution for 2011. There are several levels to it, but it all boils down to one idea (shamelessly stolen from page 24 of the January 2011 edition of Self magazine). 

BE FEARLESS.

If you make one resolution this year, let it be to live boldly.
You control this moment: rather than cautiously test the water, 
dive straight into life with freeing abandon.
Imagine the person you want to be and the life you want to live, 
and then simply commit to them.
Believe in yourself. Embrace your beauty. Discover a new passion.
And whatever you do, wherever you go, don’t be afraid to make a splash.

If I close my eyes and imagine the person I want to be, I see someone strong and independent that exudes style, grace and respect. I see an athlete. A lover. A better sister and friend. I see myself as a traveler, a wanderer and a beacon of hope.

I want to see true, unbridled happiness.

Who knows if that’s realistic, but I think it’s certainly something we all should strive for. I do not want to end this next year saying I wish I had done something different from what I did. I want to take advantage of every single opportunity, whether it is personal, professional, romantic, spiritual or physical, and I think if I can do that, then I can’t help but find my groove along the way.

Sixth Sense (T-Minus 446 Days)

** Please follow me on Twitter, if you’re of the inclination to tweet - @500daystil30 **

The idea of urinating canines didn’t seem very festive, so I decided to hold off on writing about them until I knew everyone would be in a post-holiday funk, sad to be back at work and looking for some sort of distraction. Even if it’s only by me. And even if it created this mental image.

I think we are all painfully aware of the innate sixth sense men have. I know you know the one. It’s the thing that gives a man the ability to at one moment be blissfully ignorant of reciprocating emotion, interpreting silence or simply recognizing interest … and at the next to be so keyed in to our psyche that he knows the very second we find happiness elsewhere. Or at least are prepared to find happiness.

He then feels the need to mark his territory. For all intents and purposes, to pee on our leg.

I wish I could take credit for this analogy, but it was relayed to me by a friend via one of her friends upon their discussion of my latest plight. How I was attempting to fully immerse myself in the dating world; how I had found a prospect (or two) … and how no sooner did I say it aloud that “neither defined nor satisfying” came around to make dinner plans.

I might as well be a fire hydrant. Or a bush in the neighbor’s yard.

Either way, I leave myself wide open as territory to be marked, and you know what … I don’t mind. I act annoyed and frustrated, but let’s face it, you can never truly be upset with an adorably cute dog. And I say this as someone who has come to be a pet lover late in life.

In fact, I would probably be more upset if he didn’t come sniffing around.

Whether women admit it or not, we love this phenomenon. We moan and complain about how we wish they would just leave us alone, but everyone loves to feel wanted and appreciated, even if it’s not necessarily the person we want making us feel that way. And even more so if it is the one person, but he just hasn’t realized it yet and this is the one indication it might at least be on his mind.

I experienced a second dose of this late last week when I got an email from the former Mr. Big, the first attempt at communication in close to probably four months and only the second since about three months before that (not that I’m keeping track). I can unequivocally say I do not want him in my life, but I still got a sick sense of self satisfaction he still thinks of me at the holidays.

You’re probably lying to yourself if you don’t admit to at least partly feeling the same way.

The problem comes in how you choose to handle it; how I have chosen to handle it. Just as dogs need to be trained, men cannot (or at least should not) be allowed to continually piss on whoever’s leg they please without some repercussions, unless you are truly OK with just shaking it off, washing your pants and moving on.

How’s that for an extended metaphor?

Lost and Found/10 Things (T-Minus 453 Days)

Ever since writing my letter to Santa and admitting that I have no idea where I lost my groove, I started to think maybe I should figure that part out before I worry so much about finding it. I have to confess though, the more I psycho-analyze myself, the more I find I really don’t like.

Almost two years ago, prior to the 27^th birthday, I made a list of 10 things I wanted to do before I turned 30 (there’s that number again). I remember being inspired by yet another Lifetime movie; one cleverly titled “7 Things to do Before I’m 30” and decided to three-up it in creating my list.

At that point, I came up with two handfuls of things that I thought would make me a more complete person.

And so, I got a tattoo, my No. 1 (a ladybug) and made out with a stranger (it wasn’t on purpose, I did not realize until after that I never knew his name), thus fulfilling No. 3. I also willed my prematurely arthritic knees to start running and cycling again and followed through on No. 6 and the promise to compete in something. My first cycling century filled a void and left me wanting to do more. My first triathlon, as well as the 2011 Warrior Dash is on tap for this summer.

Then came No. 7 – I started to volunteer.

Little by little, I checked things off.

As time went on though, I realized there is one thing on the list I am fairly certain I will never check off, and that it may be better in the long run. And yet another that I find myself having to do again and again …

No. 4: Let it go.

In other words, stop recycling relationships. Stop holding on to the past and start recognizing that exes are exes for a reason and cut them out of my life. I used to pride myself on my “inordinate capacity for forgiveness,” a trait I gave myself to rationalize my tendency to keep schmucks in my life based on the five seconds they once showed that they were worthy.

Most single women our age have that one guy that they have held on to the idea of what might have been. I, however, had a list.

I thought I could accomplish this purging process with a bottle of wine, some tissues and a ceremonial dumping of cell phone numbers. About a year and a half ago, I even went so far as to change mine and give the new one out on a case-by-case basis. (Basically, if I had ever made out with you, then you were left out of the phone.)

Instead, I felt the need to talk it out with each of them. Discuss what was right and what was wrong and mutually make a decision about the future that did not include booty calls, sneaking around or guilty consciences.

So, after seven years, I officially ended the relationship with the former college boyfriend turned man affectionately known as “Mr. Big,” despite the fact that we kept coming back to each other time after time and I couldn’t imagine my life without him. And the minor detail he is half the reason I moved to Ohio. That inability to let go had to mean something, so I held on.

Just like part of me held on to the minor league baseball player that I befriended when I was 19 and used to have long talks with while he was on the road because, clearly, his desire to open up to me meant that there was something there. Even eight years later.

And the hot doctor who doubled as my guilty pleasure.

Until now.

I surreptitiously said farewell to all the men that represented the best sex, cutest story and the strongest hug after finally remembering the selfishness, cheating hearts and lack of chemistry that caused me to say goodbye to them in the first place. Suddenly the days of obsessing over late nights, long chats and butterfly kisses were gone.

And I was cleansed. Almost.

For there was one other man that I thought I needed to cut out of my life for good, even though he had already taken himself out of it months earlier. He represented one of the only post-college, adult life relationships that actually meant something. He was the only one that I had truly fallen head over heels for and, subsequently, the only one to truly break my heart.

And only now, do I realize he also took the biggest chunk of my groove to date.

It should be a no-brainer. I should not have any desire to talk to the man that I never should have entered in to a unethical “relationship” with, only to do so and then have him decide after a few months to get back together with his ex-girlfriend and go to the Bahamas for a week with her – without telling me and leaving me to find out from a cohort.

What could there possibly be left to hold onto?

Yet, after nearly a year of not speaking, but continually and inwardly obsessing, I found myself wanting to tell him about the journey of self discovery that I was on, and to ask his opinion on everything from what I was writing to what he thought of my tattoo. I knew, out of everyone in my life, he would appreciate this story the most.

Because long before the reasonable facsimile of a relationship ended, I fell for him for his ability to see straight through me. To get me. To push me to want to be a better person.

Two years ago, I started to think why I would ever want to let that go.

For it is very easy to get caught up in the circumstances around why someone leaves your life, but in some instances, it is more important to recognize the reasons for which he or she came into it. Everyone does for a reason and sometimes it’s not the reason you want to believe.

I spent so long wondering how something that started out so passionately could end so abruptly and so pointlessly.  I now know he and I were never supposed to be together. He came into my life to change my reality, make me question my choices and to ultimately make me a stronger person.

While that remains to be true, yet another two years later, he is happily (I assume) married to the woman that he ended our relationship for. A woman I think I would be BFF with (at least according to some drunk Facebook and wedding registry stalking), which does not make any of it easier.

Nor does the startling realization that four years after the fact, I have yet to fill the void he left or found what he made me recognize I was missing. Alas, I am now attempting to do just that and, as I continue to go through my checklist and my search with the very goal of ultimately becoming the stronger person I know he saw in me, I realize he continues to serve his purpose.

So, in addition to telling him goodbye, I would like to mentally tell him thank you. Thank you for breaking my heart in a way that woke me up and for helping me learn I have the strength to put it back together all these years later so that it is more whole than I ever could have imagined.

And even more importantly … open.

Santa, Baby (T-Minus 457 Days)

Dear Santa:

Forgive me St. Nick, I know it’s been awhile since I last wrote. It doesn’t mean I stopped believing and, in fact, it may be just the opposite. I have been so fortunate in my 28 years on this great Earth that I have had very little to ask you for … at least once you gave me that kitchen set circa 1984.

As you probably know, it’s shaped who I have become.

I think I could use your help now though. I’m wary of asking for your support, given that there are millions of people in this world that could use a dose of Christmas spirit more than I could, but I’m not sure where else to go. Now, I don’t expect all of these things wrapped up with a nice little bow by next Saturday and maybe not even a year from now, but somewhere down the line (maybe in the next 457 days), you could help a woman out.

I mean, I think I have been at least a fairly good girl this year. Sure there were some indiscretions every now and again, but hey, it was my birthday and it was cold in Wisconsin and the other one was just the realization of a former fantasy. You can’t blame a 28-year old single woman for following through on either.

At times, I certainly tried to be worse (or at least thought about it) and I definitely dreamed about being better.

If it were truly up to me, I would probably be about 11 months into the best relationship of my life. Instead, I left it unfulfilled and unsatisfying and have only been finding the same in searching for a replacement.

So no pressure or anything, but I’m asking you for help in figuring that whole situation out. I’m not getting any younger and I’d really like to meet the person I am meant to make out with every night/brush my teeth beside every morning. Can you give me a sign? A kick in the right direction? A screen name perhaps?

And while we are it, can you do the same for where I am meant to settle down, because I am starting to think [city in the Midwest] is definitely not the place to be. Although I could see where it could be OK for awhile if the former thing worked out, it still doesn’t totally feel like home. And if you can’t find me something nice to come home to, it may be time to move on. I should note: I can deal with snow and bitter cold, as long as there is some sun involved. And some topography … mountains, an ocean, something other than nothing.

Now, if you can deliver the answers to those two things, or even just one of them, it might help me in figuring out whether I am unhappy or happy doing what I do for living. I really hope on all that is green, red and jolly that I could be happy because I frankly don’t have any idea what else I would do. It’s kind of who I am.

I hate to simplify happiness down to just those three categories – love, life and job, especially as we encroach on my first Christmas spent away from my family and the increasing feeling that maybe just a couple days with them could help put things in perspective, but alas … I am.

So now that you’ve had time to process everything Santa, could you please, in short, help me find my groove? I can’t even begin to tell you when I lost it, but I promise I am trying to figure that out and I am willing to do whatever I can to track it down. And I could really use your help.

XOXO,

You-Know-Who

Flannel Sheets (T-Minus 460 Days)

I have spent so long thinking about what to write about next that weeks have gone by without even noticing. I finally realized, however, that not every entry needs to be end with some deep, thought-provoking message, a lesson learned by yours truly or grand step towards the infamous groove.

It’s about the little things. And the tiny steps in between the big ones.

This came to me early this morning as my alarm (Joshua Radin’s - I’d Rather Be With You) continued to play over and over while I lay in bed thinking there are few greater feelings than being snuggled in new flannel sheets. I think that is one of my favorite things about winter, about the holiday season.

And so, here is a list of some of my other not-so-guilty little pleasures I relish during this time of the year (in no particular order, other than stream of consciousness).

1.       Hallmark movies. And Lifetime. And ABC Family Channel. – The Christmas Card, Fallen Angel and Recipe for a Perfect Christmas are some of my faves.

2.       Joni Mitchell’s River and Sarah McLachlin’s Wintersong … Achingly sad Christmas songs make me happy.

3.       My “I Believe” t-shirt. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause.

4.       Egg Nog … with bourbon. Great Lakes Christmas Ale.  Basically the open excuse to drink.

5.       Cookies, cookies and more cookies.

6.       Coming home from work to Christmas cards in the mailbox – even if they’re pictures of ferrets in Santa hats, from your realtor or reminding you that you are not married with 2.5 kids and a cute puppy.

7.       This probably shouldn’t have taken me all the way to No. 7, but the satisfaction of knowing you have found someone the perfect gift. I have found two of those so far and I cannot wait to give them.

8.       Putting the angel on top of the tree.

I admit it has been tougher than usual to get in the holiday spirit this year, even with all the things listed above. For the first time in my 28-plus years, I will not be spending Christmas with my family and the weight of that hits me at odd times. I am, of course, fortunate enough to have amazing friends that will open their hearts and home for me the day, but nothing will replace misbehaving in the pew with my brother and sister at the late service Christmas Eve, sleeping in the next morning and not opening stockings til 10 a.m. or helping my mom make dinner in the kitchen.

To me, family is a big thing.

And so, in the absence of the big thing, I am left with all of the small ones. I will spend this holiday nestled in flannel sheets, nursing an egg nog … with bourbon and watching FaLaLaLaLifetime. In short, making my own traditions, as seemingly pitiful as they may seem.

Whether you are heading into the next couple weeks alone, with your family, with your significant other or with your friends that might as well be family, appreciate all the little things that come with the season. They are what makes it great, or at least what makes it bearable.

Out-of-Office (T-minus 466 Days)

I know it sounds sad, but putting up the out-of-office reply is one of the most satisfying acts in my adult life. I had a very random weekend off to start the month of December and I used it to go visit friends and family in Boston, perhaps one of my favorite cities in this great Union. Before I left, I opened up the automatic reply option and realized I had not put one up since the end of July/beginning of August (also the last time I had time off to see a member of my family).

In short, it had been four whole months since I had basically been able to tell someone “Bug off, you’ll have to wait four days.”

It felt marvelous.

I even went as far as to leave my computer at home, so I would not physically be able to do work while I was away. I quickly found that also meant I was not physically able to write. And so I found myself in Cherry Bomb Bakery (I highly recommend the flourless chocolate cupcake) with a polka dot notebook and pen scribbling notes for upcoming blog entries. I had forgotten how satisfying it was to scribble out text and draw arrows to rearrange thoughts.

Of course the arrows quickly turned into doodles of flowers and hearts and stars. I’m such a girl. If only I had a crush to write in a big heart or do the compatibility test based on the numbers of vowels in each person’s names (Anyone else know this one? Anyone?). It was a standard doodle back in the day.

Alas, now I am back in the office and responding to all the emails, phone calls and notes from people that I told to “bug off” … and also back to writing.

There’s some good stuff coming up. This girl is going to find her groove … sometime in the next 466 days any way.

Giving Thanks (T-minus 478 Days)

First off, I want to wish you all Happy Thanksgiving. No matter who you are (or aren’t) with, or what you are doing, I hope you are having a wonderful day.

After all, it is right to give thanks.

And so, with my apple pie in the oven, I have some down time and want to do just that. I originally planned to write a semi-sarcastic list about why it’s so great to be single at the holidays, but let’s face it, it kind of blows … plus it’s already been done.

Instead I want to write about how truly thankful I am to have been single until this point in my life.

Don’t laugh or roll your eyes; I am serious.

I want to preface everything I am about to say with the fact I have nothing but happiness for my friends that found the loves of their lives in college, or high school for that matter and I wish them lifetimes of joy and/or, for those unjoyful times, great makeup sex.  

But I think back to the person I was when I graduated at 22, and even more so the person I was at 20 when I met the person I spent seven years thinking was my Mr. Big, and I was not in the place to find my great love. Mostly because I had yet to realize that your first true great love needs to be yourself.

Over the six and a half years since I graduated from college, I have lived in three states, worked at three different places and risen within my profession, even if it took working 70 hours/week. I bought my first new car, started a retirement fund, worked through the holidays, learned about wine and bought enough patio furniture to entertain six.

I have loved and lost and learned to love again.

And most importantly, I learned to love myself.

I realize, to some, that may counteract the very premise of this whole blog about finding my groove and finding happiness, but to me learning about how freakin’ amazing I am was just the foundation for the rest of it.

I had to first learn I deserved to have a groove and I don’t think I could have done that with someone else in my life, someone that I had to put before myself. I have been wholeheartedly selfish for much of the last several years and I am perfectly OK with that.

But I don’t want to be selfish anymore. And yes, part of that is sharing it with a man that I might or might not meet online, but it’s also building a life that is not centered on work. That is instead about friends, family, faith and enjoying everything in the world around me.

So that is what I am here to do. And I am oh-so-thankful to be in the strong and independent position to do so.

Sole-mates (T-minus 480 Days)

My college roommate texted me the other night to tell me she was cleaning out her closet and to ask if I had any interest in her old pair of brown riding boots. She had recently gotten another pair, but was having a really hard time getting rid of them.

I begrudgingly said no; that I, too, had bought new ones.

But the more I thought about it, the harder it was for me to imagine her getting rid of them. You see, these aren’t just any boots, as I am fairly certain they have special powers …

It is only a slight exaggeration to say these boots are the reason JB and I became friends. As all big-footed girls know, when you find that special someone that also wears a size 11 shoe, you never let them go. Add the fact we were about the same height and clothing size (or at least we were nine years ago before someone became a crazy fit triathlete) and you had a friendship made in heaven.

The brown riding boots were the first (of many) things I borrowed and they opened up the floodgates for not only sharing shoes and clothing, but to a friendship that quickly became more of a sisterhood.

So in honor of Thanksgiving and in memory of the first pair of “f me boots” I ever wore, I want to say how extraordinarily grateful I am, not only for JB, but for all the amazing women in my life (who I know would let me borrow their shoes if they too had had boats for feet).

You see, I was a quasi-tomboy through high school and even college, never really understanding the importance of female friendships until my early 20s. Maybe working in a male-dominated industry made me realize I need more estrogen in my life, or maybe I just watched too much Sex and the City, but either way I know I have made up for lost girl time.

Over the last several years, I have collected a group of women from all stages of my life – from first grade through my sixth floor Team Estrogen ladies – whose beauty, grace and strength all make me a better person. These friendships have survived distance – and will again – as well as marriages, children, heartache and everything in between.

You all know who you are and, in case I haven’t told you lately, I love you. [Cue Rod Stewart.]

And so, instead of obsessing over the fact JB is getting rid of the boots, I am relishing in the fact they are getting a new home and I will wish on a star tonight that they bring the woman who inherits them the same good fortune we had.

Match Schmatch (T-Minus 486 Days)

In an effort to distract myself from the relationship previously referred to as “neither defined nor satisfying,” I decided to take matters into my own hands and dive into some online dating. I have dabbled in the venue on and off over the last few years, never with much success, but the commercials somehow always draw me in and convince me to give it another go.

Maybe that sweet, tall, dark, handsome independently-wealthy cyclist with a random desire to move west and has an equally intense love for college basketball, good wine and his parents will somehow magically be searching at the same time for a work-a-holic, closet-commitment phobe with trust issues and a severe case of a third-life crisis (let’s face, we’re all past the quarter-life).

I mean, it happens all the time, right?

Anyway, about a month into this, I would love to report that such an event actually happened. Or that I met someone the complete opposite of all those things and I realized that’s who I really wanted.

Instead, I was reminded of all the reasons I cancelled my subscriptions on the previous attempts.

After filtering through the emails, “winks,” “nudges,” and other assorted means of cyber flirting from all of the guys that were either: atrocious spellers (I am intelijent), borderline midgets, “recently separated,” downright creepy, holy rollers, using a profile photo from circa 1995, outright mama’s boy and/or posing shirtless with a motorcycle, sports car or woman that’s been blacked out, I found a few possibilities.

The first two were crossed off the list after a few email exchanges and, in one case, a phone call. I judge you for your grammar and punctuation use; what can I say? The third one, however, not only garnered a first date, but a second and a third.

This is going to be mildly embarrassing because I definitely lied to at least one of you about where I met this guy, but really, as of now, it’s a moot point. So, without further ado, because of his status as a PhD student in geology, we’ll call him Rock Doc.

On paper, Rock Doc sounded entirely promising. He holds at least a handful of characteristics mentioned above as ideal and shared enough common interests that I figured he would at least be a cool guy to get to know. I had a pretty OK time on date one and was pleasantly surprised at the end of it when he said he would call the next day to set up round two.

What I thought would be a single phone call, opened up a string of incessant communication, all sandwiched between a daily good morning and goodnight text that were nowhere near the hours that a non-student/working professional such as myself finds herself going to bed or waking up.

I told myself it was cute.

And then I ignored the glaring red flags on date two and went for the third, thinking it might be the charm. Instead, I found myself deciding once and for all that this was not the person for me. No big deal, right? It had only been three dates and clearly if I felt like I had more chemistry making out with my pillow (hypothetical), then he would feel that way too.

Besides, I was leaving on a road trip for several days; the timing to extricate myself was perfect.

The barrage of text messages continued though. And daily email updates were added with declarations of “I miss you, hurry home,” suggestions of possible long-term plans and an embarrassing whole paragraph of Rock Doc devising a formula to turn the number of days I was gone into the number of kisses I owed when I got home. I think I ever read a sentence about weekends counting double before I deleted it all together.

Because, by this point, I had known him for six days, and for those of you that know me, that is not my style. I can wallow in a grey area for weeks. Months. Years.

Now I wish I could say I have handled this like a mature woman and gently explained to him that I didn’t feel like this was the right time to get in a relationship, that I didn’t see it going anywhere or that I hoped that we could still be friends.

In short, that it’s not him; it’s me.

Instead though, I have blatantly ignored. Texts, emails, calls – I have not answered or replied to a single one for a week now. I am certainly not proud of my behavior; I didn’t mean for everything to go unacknowledged for this long, but what’s done is done.

And for now, neither defined nor satisfying doesn’t seem so bad.

Sassy Hair (T-Minus 494 Days)

I received somewhat mixed reactions to my initial blog post. I received a couple “you go girls,” but I also heard my fair share of “I didn’t realize you were so unhappys,” and I want to make sure I make one thing very clear as I move forward: I am not unhappy.

I am, quite simply, not happy.

I don’t think you can truly understand the difference between the two sentiments until you have experienced the epitome of one or the other. For me, it was the downward face … but that was years ago and this isn’t a place to rehash tales of teen-age and early 20s misery and angst.

Because this is the place to, not just find the upward face, but find the face that stays up.

And, with the help of Alex P. Keaton, I realized tonight two of the most important people that any grooveless 20-something needs to have in her (or his) life to help make that happen:

1)      a hair stylist you wholeheartedly and single-mindedly trust

2)      the purely-platonic male friend/drinking partner/reality check

I must say I am fortunate enough to have both in my life.

For the last year-plus, Miriam has been one of the most significant relationships in my life. She inherited a head of ashy brown and graying hair and has turned into one of my favorite features. At times red and at others brown, my hair is Miriam’s vision at the best version of me, as so overly dramatic as that sounds.

Instead of being asked what I came in for, as is the case with most stylist-client relationships, I sit down in the swivel chair and ask her what she has in mind for me. Without fail, she always has a plan and, at least to date, it always works out. It never fails that I leave there without feeling infinitely better about myself than when I went in.

There are few things more depressing, however, than getting a new sassy ‘do and realizing you have absolutely nowhere to show it off. So a couple rounds at Phia ago, I texted a friend and asked he would meet me for a beer after my hair appointment so I wouldn’t have to take my newly-shiny and straight locks home without an outside look.

He obliged and has since been asked for repeat performances, pretty much cementing his status among preferred drinking buddies (it’s a highly-selective group) and proving there are few things more valuable than the unbiased male opinion.

The topics discussed with both are fodder for another night when morning is several more hours away, but suffice to say opinions were taken into consideration and I will head into tomorrow a better person because of them both.

A person who is one step closer to finding her groove. Or at least to always having sassy hair while looking for it.

Spinning (T-Minus 500 Days)

Several weeks ago, I decided I was going to have a nervous breakdown today. I was originally going to wait until March, but after some deliberation, I thought today would be better. More blog-worthy.

And really I was just impatient.

Turns out, however, I simply have too much to do and frankly don’t have time to have a nervous breakdown. Instead, I’m just going to get down to business:

Today marks 500 days until my 30th birthday, a momentous occasion that will hopefully be met with much revelry … and booze. Not to mention happiness and blissful contentment.

Because right now, quite frankly, the only one of things I have going for me is lots and lots of booze.

For the last year, several friends have told me they wished I would blog about my life in the same sarcastically cheeky and, at times, startling frank, prose that I am apparently known for speaking. I, however, figured there are enough wannabe Carrie Bradshaws out there who think other people actually care about their tales of singledom and I didn’t want to be another one.

So I waited until I could come up with a hook. With some curb appeal. With an idea that was worthy of the comment to my friend Erin about how I like to plan my life crises.

This idea/pre-meditated breakdown all started back in an early October spin class. We were doing a set of sprints when the instructor made an innocuous comment about how our hearts should really be feeling it at that moment. I paused for a second to pay attention to what my heart felt like, how fast it was beating and I tried to remember the last time that anything else made it race to the point it felt ready to burst.

And just like that, I spent the next hill climb thinking. Digging. Trying to come up with something other than continuous pedal strokes that makes my heart feel that alive.

I mean, I don’t even know the last time work did that. It certainly wasn’t because of a man. I haven’t had time to paint or take photos of something other than a sporting event and baking has become a pre-road trip superstitious chore. Wine makes me feel pretty good, and occasionally makes my heart race, but that is hardly the same. And probably not as healthy.

By the time spin class ended, instead of feeling like my normal badass self for totally showing up the waifey blonde on the bike next to me, I felt deflated.

I felt mildly passionless. Grooveless, if you will.

And so I went home and sat on the back deck wearing sweatpants and downing glasses of red wine trying to simultaneously grasp and articulate how my life had gotten to this point.

How I went from having professional goals, plans to buy a home and a clear idea of what I wanted in life to not having a single idea about any of it. To dreading going to work each day. To not talking to my sister for weeks on end because I feel like I have nothing to tell her. To realizing I have spent the last several months in a pseudo-relationship that is neither defined nor satisfying.

To genuinely not having any idea what direction my life is heading, or even which way I want it to go.

I think every 20-something struggles with this to a point and it is certainly not the first time I have felt a sense of panic about my future, but prior to now, any uncertainty was counteracted by the realization that I was at least partly happy. Even if I wasn’t in a relationship, then at least I was content and satisfied at work. Or if work sucked, then at least I had amazing friends to lean on … or a hot guy to hook up with. Or some combination of those situations.

But now, I honestly feel like I have nothing. Not in a dark, depressing, Girl Interrupted sort of way, but in the way that comes from having a less-than-ideal professional life, a personal life that leaves something to be desired and the understanding that you are not in the best place to make either thing better.

And so, I put forth the challenge to myself to figure out what change or changes need to take place … and to actually make them.

To, in short, find my groove.

All in the next 500 days. All by my 30th birthday.