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Can you just be happy for me?

I remember there was a time in my twenties where I had a handful of close girlfriends who would blow up my phone anytime there was a Facebook or Instagram engagement announcement. 

“Oh my god, did you see that Susan is engaged?”

“How long has Karen even known him? I bet she’s pregnant.”

“Chad is seriously going to marry his highschool sweetheart? I just threw up in my mouth.”

I wasn’t just on the receiving end of these texts though. I’m not proud but I’m most certainly guilty of demanding answers from my anonymous group of single ladies on how a massive bitch like Becky landed a CFO of a tech start-up and through some type of witchcraft sentenced him to twenty-five to life. Like I said, I’m not proud. Still genuinely curious though. You’d understand if you knew Becky. 

It’s not that we weren’t genuinely happy for our friends. It was just our way of coping with the fact that our time hadn’t come yet. Were we a little bitter? Sure. Did we talk shit to feel better? You bet. But were we genuinely thrilled for them and just sulking in our own despair? One hundred percent. We weren’t annoyed at the thought of marriage or finding someone; we were just annoyed that we dated losers who never saw our potential. 

In fact, we were so into the fantasy of happily ever-after that we planned on visiting bridal shops to try on dresses and pitch ourselves as sisters who got engaged at the same time. To brothers. Who wouldn’t believe that? Why did we want to embrace the life of con artists? For me, it was mostly the free champagne, but deep down I also wanted to know what it felt like to squeeze into a beautiful ivory gown. 

As I type this I know very well that if I could go back in time to see that twenty-something year-old girl trying on that Melissa Sweet linear lace dress I would grab the champagne out of her hand and throw it in her face yelling, “Wake up, lady!” But that would just be a waste of good champagne so I’d likely drink the champagne then slap her in the face. It doesn’t count as assault if you’re beating yourself up, right? Still, there was something magical about being young and ignorant and I can’t deny how much joy it brought me at the time even though I’d eventually learn that I was in a relationship with a man who would never marry me.

Since then my small group of single social media fiends* has become increasingly smaller as they eventually found a partner to spend the rest of their lives with. I thought at some point it might get lonely out here for a single girl with no one to banter with but surprisingly once I reached my thirties I stopped caring. And I’m not just saying that. I really don’t care. It’s part of life and completely inevitable that people you know will get engaged, married, and eventually have babies. I can honestly say I am truly happy for them but I’m not entirely sure they’re happy for me. 

Almost immediately following my break-up, friends and family began whoring out my resume (I look great on paper) to potential contenders I had never even met. 

“I want to introduce you to one of my husband’s closest friends!”

“I have the perfect guy for you.”

“We should set you up on Bumble! Maybe Tinder.”

This left me completely flabbergasted. I had just exited a seven year relationship and everyone and their mother, literally, was on the hunt to find me another match. It felt like my status as a single woman was being treated like some kind of illness and I was to be put into quarantine until I found the right medication to put me back on my feet. Until I found the right man to complete me.

It’s been over a year since my break-up now and with the exception of one absolutely deplorable date, I haven’t invested any of my time into getting to know anyone. I’ve made a lot of new friends whose company I thoroughly enjoy but I haven’t pursued anything romantic. A few weeks ago during a conversation with a friend I had mentioned that I’m not dating and he looked at me like I was crazy. 

“Why not,” he asked.

I realized in that moment how content I was with the way things were.

I had been dating since I was in high school and realized that while I might not have always been in a relationship, I usually didn’t go longer than six months without a guy in the picture. I had a high school boyfriend, a college boyfriend, a work boyfriend, and an adult boyfriend. In between boyfriends there was always someone I was talking to, going out for drinks or dinner with, or trying to pursue a relationship with before it blew up in my face. I was a complete serial monogamist. I always craved a companion. At that very moment I realized for the first time in my life I no longer did.

I’ve been single for a year and some change now and in that time I’ve gotten to know myself better than anyone else. I’ve gone from dining alone to traveling solo and pursuing opportunities I otherwise wouldn’t if I was attached to someone. In short, I’ve been having a lot of fun lately. The house can be a little too quiet at times and everytime the plane leaves the ground I almost still expect someone to grasp my hand tight enough to shake the initial jitters I have when flying, but with the exception of some habitual feelings, which will eventually fade completely, I’m very happy and that should be enough for all inquiring minds. 

For me, it’s more than enough.

So…can you just be happy for me?

*not a typo but I was fairly entertained to notice that the the only difference between a friend and a fiend is the letter “r.”

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Happy New Year, Girl

I had the most productive day yesterday. 

I woke up at 4:30 in the morning completely (and surprisingly) well-rested from a good night’s sleep. At 5:30 am I got the beating of my life at the gym after two weeks off but couldn’t stop humming to “Hurt So Good” by John Mellencamp while catching my breath after my workout, completely doused in sweat. 

I came home, showered, poured myself a cup of green tea and learned Japanese for 15 minutes, courtesy of my recently downloaded Duolingo app. At 9:00 am I headed to the Korean spa for an hour long scrub and oil massage – with a complimentary mini facial I might add. If you’ve never been to a Korean spa, you need to book an appointment and experience this magic at least once in your life. 

I wanted to start off the first full week of January with a fresh start and I couldn’t think of a better way than to literally scrub the remnants of 2019 off my body to reveal a glowing new canvas itching to create a new portrait. 

If you’ve had a body scrub before in a Western spa, then you were likely in your swimwear or bottoms, exposing as much as you were comfortable with, rubbed down with some green tea coffee mix promising to exfoliate your skin, then wrapped up looking like someone’s Thanksgiving leftovers. You poor little snack.

Let me tell you that the Korean spa is a much different experience. You strip down to your birthday suit, hang out in the spa or sauna until your fingers and toes look like raisins, then a tiny Korean woman in black lace underwear (scandalous, right?) and the strength of a bodybuilder (no joke) takes you into a private room where she literally scrubs off your dead skin with nothing but what feels like a sandpaper loofah. If you’re brave enough to look, you’ll notice your arms and legs look like someone freshly grated parmesan cheese on them and wonder how you’ve been carrying around this much dead skin. You feel disgusted yet refreshed at the same time, if you can get over the anxiety that comes with baring it all for a stranger. In recent months, the only other person I’ve been that intimate with is my waxing lady and we’ve been together for over a decade. That woman has seen parts of me that I know none of my ex’s have.

I got sidetracked.

After the Korean spa I went on a grocery run and came home to meal prep for the week. This week’s menu includes Beyond Meat cheeseburgers (I’m not vegan or vegetarian but these are seriously delicious), Alaskan salmon kale and spinach salad, and chicken breast with mixed vegetables. In an effort to really be an overachiever and kick-start this “New Year New Me” bullshit, I even cleared the entire Whole Foods selection of celery juice to start each morning with. 

In the afternoon I headed to the bank then cut a check to pay my entire year’s rent. That’s right; the entire year. I’m really big on saving and try to be smart with my money so if I can avoid one stress this year I will absolutely cut bills off my list. I guess my dream Camaro will have to wait.

Having had a busy but productive day, I closed the evening by reading. I turned off my phone, avoided Netflix, and continued to read “Girl, Wash Your Face,” by Rachel Hollis which I had started on the first of the month. One of my many goals this year was to start reading more so I decided to commit to reading one book a month. It’s not much considering most can put a good book down within a week, but it’s a realistic goal and one that works for me. I used to read obsessively before college but as I took on more classes, accepted internships, and got more and more job offers, I fell out of my passion.

I don’t have any New Year’s resolutions but I certainly have realistic goals that I’ve set for the year that prioritize my health and happiness. Today, I woke up at 4:30 again to go to the gym, sorer than I was yesterday. I must have hit the snooze button 8 times this morning and thought of every reason why I didn’t have to go but then realized that if I didn’t show up I was flaking on myself. Put it into perspective; if you say you’re going to commit to something and decide you’d rather Netflix and order pizza, it’s basically the equivalent of a friend making plans with you and flaking last minute. I’ve been that friend and I’ve had friends flake on me multiple times. It’s the worst. So why flake on yourself? Don’t you deserve better? I think you do. And I do too.

I’m not saying we don’t deserve a rest day every once and awhile. Hell, I’m sitting on the couch as a type this with a glass of wine beside me. And yes, just a glass this time. It is only Tuesday after all. But I’m having that glass of wine knowing I’ve been productive as fuck and I’m only celebrating how good that feels.

So cheers to the New Year and cheers to feeling good. 2019 was an icky year and I finally got sick and tired of feeling so beat down. Looking back on it though, as cliche as it sounds, it really was a blessing, hurting in the same way growing pains do. Hurting in the same way Monday’s squats are feeling right about now. But after the pain comes the muscle and with the muscle comes strength. 

Come at me 2020. For better or worse, this is going to be my year.

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