Funk-y Admission (T-Minus 264 Days)

There is an old theatre in the city I live which plays an older movie Friday nights during the summer. Last week, two of the girls I work with and I went out to dinner and then to the gorgeously ornate and at one time thriving theatrical venue to see Bridget Jones, a classic chick flick and favorite of the last 10 years. As I dumped Raisinets in my mouth by the handful, however, I was slapped with a bit of reality I had blissfully not seen coming.

The fictional character my friends and I had once mocked and, at 20 years old, seemed like the height of desperation now hit much closer than home. This is, of course, a bit of an exaggeration but as I watched the early “All by Myself” scene, I found myself laughing at myself instead of dear Bridget.

Because it was no longer just the image of a tragic spinster. If you added some ice cream to the booze, it was practically a scene from my typical Friday night.

This realization led me to acknowledge something else I had been doing my best to ignore … I have been in what can best be described as a funk for much of the last several weeks. Though certainly perpetuated by events around me, I have decided it is still a wholly personal issue. And one I have not discovered a tried and true solution for.

To say motivation has, at times, been lacking during said funk would be probably be an understatement. I have found it incredibly difficult to make myself do a lot of things I know I should be doing – like cooking, catching up with friends and training for my upcoming bike race … or blogging about any of it for that matter.

I think it all peaked last week as I scrambled to prepare for one of my dearest friends weddings over the weekend. Just days before two of my favorite people said “I do”, I had not yet booked a hotel room, completed the gift or bought necessary undergarments to complete the dress. Apparently it was just easier to ignore and pretend it wasn’t right around the corner.

This has been my philosophy to a lot of things lately. I have ignored phone calls from old friends, not eager to discuss my latest failed attempt with Sparks, lame date I attempted to replace him with or how I just don’t have a whole lot of anything else to report. It can be exhausting to have the same conversation over and over again when I occasionally feel like some of them are asking to live vicariously and hear stories from their token single friend.

My lameness as a friend came to a head when I finally returned about five missed calls over the last month from my college roommate. While on my drive back from the aforementioned wedding, I learned my former partner in alcohol and Easy Mac-fueled escapades is now expecting her first child with her husband of two and a half years.

I knew this call was going to come sooner or later and I am thrilled about being a long-distance aunt ... again. Apparently the harshness of this last winter led to a lot of indoor activity, as three of my closest girl friends are now due in October, November and December. Coming off the wedding this weekend and walking into the latest mommyhood update is enough to make any girl – even one who breaks into hives at the thought of white dresses and children – examine her life.

And apparently admit to the funk. Now all I have to do is figure out how to get over it.

Sparks Notes (T-Minus 270 Days)

Just a quick update. A Sparks Note (heh heh) if you will.

Instead of having a crazy passionate reunion with Sparks Saturday as previously planned, I spent the night at home in my recliner with bags of ice on both knees and a wine glass in my hand while watching He’s Just Not That Into You. To put it in perspective, I was probably about half a box of wine (yes, box) away from hitting a new low.

OK, maybe not quite, despite it perhaps feeling so at the time.

Our weekend plans were foiled by extenuating circumstances on both sides – though mostly his – and I was admittedly kind of disappointed about the whole thing. Turns out it was probably for the best, timing wise, and we’ve had several good talks in the meantime. Including a couple on possible rescheduled dates.

I think I accepted someone in there this situation is what it is, even if I want it to be something more. He and I are both in weird, transient places in our lives. Neither settled in our careers or current locations – which just happen to already be seven hours away from each other. It’s pretty hard to imagine the future with so much up in the air.

Not to say I won’t keep trying. 

Ready, Set, Go (T-Minus 288 Days)

A blog post on the The Daily Love came across my twitter feed this morning, retweeted by one of my friends, titled “Training for Your First Love-A-Thon.” The idea, at first, intrigued me. It follows the basis of getting ready for a marathon -- how you would never go into one without proper training and the same thing should hold true for love.

The authors, Janis Gaudelli and Tristan Coopersmith, break into six steps:

-       Do your research on all that is involved

-       Understand the right head and heart space needed to be successful

-       Gear up (proper support and equipment)

-       Start the training process (charting your course, pacing, etc.)

-       Ready, set, go (put into action all that you learned, keeping your eye on the goal)

-       Crossing the finish line (you made it…be happy and proud)

As I am currently in training for my second century ride, I found the comparison to working out appealing. I realize, of course, it is meant to be taken tongue-in-cheek, but on some level I wanted to be able to identify with the step-by-step approach and analogy.

I quickly realized, however, I want to take the exact opposite approach to love. As Sam in the movie Love Actually said, let’s get the shit kicked out of us by love.

I was catching up with my neighbor the other day while I was on my way out the door to work. As a late-30s married woman with a young child, she occasionally longs for her 20-something single days and likes to live vicariously through hearing of my escapades, although it should be noted after observing his comings and goings, she is still convinced Mr. NDNS and I will get together. Regardless, we hadn’t chatted since Match-Point gave way to Sparks and there was a lot to catch her up on.

I told her of Sparks’ and my upcoming visit and how I was excited, but thought we both knew it wasn’t going to work beyond this trip, or maybe a couple more.  She was appalled I would go into it with such an attitude and asked him if he was someone I could see myself being with. I replied with “yes, but …” and started to list distance, job commitments and other reasons why it wouldn’t work and she interrupted me.

“No buts. If he makes you smile, you have to take a chance on love.”

It could probably be argued the last 29 years of my life have been all the training for the love-a-thon I really need, but if we’re looking at it as an isolated case, I am skipping all of the other steps and steeling myself for “ready, set, go” when I see him in just about two weeks. Not in a jump-straight-into-bed or profess-my-undying-love way, but in a manner where my heart is open and prepared for whatever is ready to enter it.

And where I am ready to do whatever it takes to finish the race, cross the finish line and relish in victory … or be proud in defeat.

WWJD (T-Minus 289 Days)

A couple weekends ago I went to Vegas for a bachelorette party in advance of one of my esteemed BFFs impending nuptials. I had only met the other ladies once, but we all agreed beforehand the event would be nothing short of epic. Think “The Hangover” [1] … only pink.

I mean, what started out as one became four of us wolves, running around the desert together, in Las Vegas, looking for strippers and cocaine. Or at least we expected blackouts, makeouts or to be kicked out. To be honest, I even kind of wanted to see someone get tased (as long as it wasn’t me).

While it is safe to say absolutely none of that happened, the trip still had its moments – impromptu photo shoots with curtains, candy necklaces made of phallic shapes, scavenger hunts and late-night conversations that can only take place between drunken friends. The soon-to-be-bride rocked a veil, woke up with writing on her arm and proclaims she was “toasted for three straight days.” Plus she was led around the majority of the time by monkey backpack as to not get lost.

All in all, from a debauchery standpoint, I would say the weekend was still a success.

Although disappointed not to find Baby Carlos, I find myself being grateful that festivities ended there and I am able to remember the trip without having to re-trace steps, battle a tiger or … worry about our best friend being face down in a ditch with a meth head butt-fucking [her] corpse.

This clearly illustrates one of the surest signs of getting older is the redefinition of fun. Once we were settled in Vegas, it became way more appealing to relax by the pool with a cocktail, hang out (i.e. lose money) at the Blackjack table or sit down to a totally amazeballs dinner. We even changed out of heels and into flip-flops to go out dancing and the closest anyone got to hooking up with someone was me eye-fucking the shit out of some guy in the crosswalk.

(Don’t knock it; I still felt like I needed a cigarette afterwards.)

When I look back on the blackout-free weekend, there are several moments that will forever stick out and bring a smile to my face. Among them is a conversation that seems more preposterous every time I play it out in my head involving the namesake of the Bellagio water show – Jasmine – and her possible life story. What started as one off-handed comment turned into a weekend-long monologue of torrid affairs, magic carpet rides and clandestine meetings with Mr. Lexor in a suite at Mandalay Bay.

The theme eventually emerging from the weekend was WWJD – What Would Jasmine Do – and I actually find myself channeling the mantra from time to time because, at least in our minds, Jasmine knows how to live it up.

To put it in my terms – she has her groove.

One of the other resounding moments of the trip came on the last day, after we had all said our goodbyes and hugged it out in the In ‘n’ Out parking lot to go our separate ways. With the other half of the wolf pack headed to the airport, my esteemed BFF and honored bachelorette told me they had deemed me an official member of their “brain trust.” It was probably just the overindulgence of the double-double, but my heart actually felt fuller at that moment.

Going into a weekend with three women who were all college friends, it would have been pretty easy to feel like a loner, or a one-woman wolf pack, but I left Vegas feeling as if I had even more to be thankful for and excited to see everyone again.

So it may not have gone the way we all had expected, but I think it was probably better. Although I do still wonder what tigers dream of when they take their little tiger snooze.