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.