The Stride of Pride

That right kids, your occasional blogger finally got some.

I won’t go into the gory details. You just need to know I went out with unshaven legs so of course I met a cute guy who wanted to come back to my place.

The hot dress I was wearing (with tights to hide the leg stubble) and the many Miller Lites I drank may have also contributed to the inevitably of the situation I found myself in.

Oh, and, mom, if you are still reading this: Stop. Don’t torture yourself. I don’t redeem myself.

How Not To Go on a Date

Now that you are celebrating your single-dom again, you are going to start getting asked out. Some of these invitations will be welcome and during those dates my only advice is to not get drunk, bring up the ex-boyfriend, start crying and then drunk dial the ex after your date drops you off  – not that I ever did that.

Unfortunately, along with the good will come the bad. And for those, you can simply say something like, “Awe, thanks. That is really sweet of you, but I am really just getting over someone and so I’m not looking to date right now.”  What? Most of that is true.

But what do you do when you aren't sure you are being asked out? 

For example: A guy friend calls or emails or texts you something funny and you two are going back and forth and are laughing and  then suddenly you hear (or read), “Hey, wanna grab a drink?”

What is that?

Let’s Party

I bet you thought I forgot all about you kids out there suffering through your break-ups. Well, I didn’t. But as I explained earlier, this is a process, a cycle, and I wanted to give you lots of time to go back and forth between disgusting and cleansing before I prepared you for the next phase.

That and I’ve been really busy. I mean, I did run a marathon and all.

And now that I am no longer training (who are we kidding? I barely trained) and you are through cycling – let’s party.

Thank You, Superstorm Sandy

Lana bought this book for me for my 16th birthday.
I still have it.

When someone asks “How are you doing?” I almost always respond: “Well, thanks. You?” “Well” is simple. The truth is not. But the well-meaning stranger doesn’t want the truth. They were just being polite. So, I return the favor by not regaling the person with all the problems keeping me up at night.

The same can be said for when someone asks, “Are you and your sister close?” The simple answer is “Yes.”  The truth is more complicated than that.

The First Amendment: A Primer

I interrupt our quest through the five stages of a break-up because I have to get something off my chest. I promise to have the next stage to you shortly – I won’t even make you wait a week.


So, the Reddit Troll Violentacrez was outed last week. If you have no idea what I am talking about click here.

I am not going to get into just how disgusting, despicable and detestable I find this man’s online persona – mostly because as a troll, that is what he wants. I do, however, need to address his defenders. Those decrying Gawker for exposing his true identity. Folks flying the First Amendment flag in our faces.

Here’s the thing about the First Amendment (big fan, by the way). It gives every American citizen the right to speak his/her thoughts freely without having to fear persecution by their government.

That last part is the important part. So, I’m gonna say it again: by their government.

Stage Two: Let the Cleansing Begin

So, after a week of not showering, not changing your pajamas, sleeping on the couch, watching NCIS marathons and only eating meals that can be delivered, you smelled yourself, swallowed back vomit and ran to the bathroom where you saw your tear-stained, swollen, blotchy face. You grabbed either side of the vanity to steady yourself as you asked your reflection, “what the fuck happened?”


Please note shopaholics, you will experience a similar feeling when you see your email credit card alerts.

How To Be Dumped: Part One: Grossness

I'm not sure if it was the monster moon this past weekend,or the upcoming holidays, but a number of my friends have recently found themselves single again. And while I believe I clearly demonstrate on this blog that I am terrible when it comes to relationships, my friends are still coming to me for advice.


Maybe they don’t read the blog.

The last time I was dumped, I offered a very simplified road map to how I get over a guy. My plan – like another plan that you may have heard of – has five stages/steps: Grossness, Cleansing, Celebrating, Recovering, and then, finally, Moving on. Though, I only really talk about the first four in my old post.

The first stage, in my opinion, is the most important. The gross stage.

The John Mayer Problem

A while back ago the celebrity gossip world was abuzz that Katy Perry and John Mayer were a thing. Then, more recently, everyone was talking again, this time about how John dumped Katy.

I was less surprised that John Mayer dumped Katy Perry (isn’t that sort of his thing) than I was that she dated him in the first place. The guy's a jerk. And while I ‘m still not sure if sexual napalm is a compliment or an insult, I’m damn sure I don’t want any guy I’ve slept with to say it about me in a national magazine.

Though, in fairness, it might be nice to have a guy write a song comparing my body to a wonderland.

Still, as I do with almost all celebrity gossip I can quite fathom, I chalked it up to some anomaly inherent in the DNA of otherwise perfect people.

That is until I learned of a similar phenomenon plaguing a group of my friends.

Why Paul Ryan Lied – A Feminist’s Opinion

By now, even my parents know that Paul Ryan lied about his marathon time. What people don’t know is why he lied about it. Was it a simple mistake? No way. Was he just boasting? Maybe. Was he flat out lying because he didn’t want to admit a girl was faster than him? Well, that’s my theory.

Yes, as a recently reformed misogynist, I’m seeing misogyny everywhere. And sure, one could say I have developed this theory to get back on Gloria’s good side, but still, stay with me for a minute.

My Apologies to Women Everywhere (And Eli Manning)

 I have a confession to make. Sometimes I can be a bit of a misogynist. Now I don’t beat up women or call them stupid when they ask a question or suggest that they belong in the kitchen making me a sandwich. But on Sundays during football season I have been known to yell at my T.V. “What kind of bullsh*t arm tackle was that you effin’ p&ssy. Take your g.d. skirt off and man the eff up.”



One of my favorite t-shirts
now headed to the Goodwill pile.



The Games We Play

There is a game my mom and dad love to play with me. For lack of anything better, I call it the “Anything Else” game.


It dates back to middle school when guys were just starting to notice girls – and by that I mean guys were starting to notice other girls. I remained the girl they only noticed when they needed one more for a game of football.

Slip and Falls and Stranger’s Beds

I know I retired (killed) the cliché of single women dying alone a couple of posts back and I am not about to revive it here. But it would be disingenuous if I didn’t admit I do fear dying alone. However, my fear is a very specific one.

I’m afraid of slipping and falling and, unable to reach my mobile phone, I die a slow, painful death alone in my apartment. This fear has more to do with my steep stairs, hardwood floors, general lack of grace, the fact that I wear five-inch heels, that I like to drink a lot, sometimes leave my five-inch heels wherever I kicked them off the night before, and often forget to bring a towel with me to the shower thus requiring me to run across my hardwood floors, wet and naked and not paying attention, then it does with being single. 

Bridie once assured me that this was a silly and unnecessary fear: my friends would all start to worry after the second day passed with no Facebook status update.

Still, I get a warm and fuzzy feeling inside when I get a panicked call from a worried friend who hasn’t heard from me.

The One

A thousand years ago, my mom encouraged (made) me read The Secret. For those of you who have read it, you know will know how this relates, for those who didn't, basically, The Secret is everything you want you just need to think really hard about, and then the universe will deliver it to you.


For the most part, I think this is crap. But in the same way I don't necessarily believe in a god, but still sometimes worry I'm going to hell, at times when I am thinking about something and then it happens, I wonder if I made it happen with my powerful brain.

As I mentioned last week, I have been thinking a lot about my past, including past loves. And it wouldn't be a list of my greatest hits if it didn't include The One, because as the saying goes, you never forget your first.

Now, for clarification sake, The One wasn't my first in that sense (oh, god how I wish I could forget that first). He was the first guy for whom I had those feelings. You know those feelings. The shivers, the butterflies, the weak knees and the panties sliding to the floor. All which I mistook for love.

Back then all I knew about love came from romantic comedies, pop songs and novels.

A Little Self Reflection During My Last Full Week at 33

So this past week has been an interesting one for self-discovery – nothing all that unusual as I typically do a lot of reflecting on my life and what it all means in the weeks leading up to my birthday.

Around this time every year I start to get the itch to move to Chicago or San Francisco. I think about changing careers, or going to school or doing something so that I have a better plan than my current back-up plan (to retire as a nun) if I don’t make it as a writer. I also spend a lot of time wondering about exes – what they are up to but mostly what would be different about my life if they weren’t an ex.

It was in this mindset that I clicked on the Atlantic’s article “Is Facebook Making Us Lonely.”

I was most intrigued by this article because I have often thought that things like Facebook and Twitter actually make it easier for me to be alone. On Friday nights, when I’m not in the mood to go out (or my friends are all out on dates) I will sit home and watch TV, enjoy some wine, and check in on Facebook and Twitter obsessively. If I am watching the Phillies play (or this past week, the Olympics) reading my Twitter feed suddenly feels like I am watching the game with a dozen or so of my closest friends – even though I have never met most of these people.

Greener Grass

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I was recently at the pool with Bridie and Pepper. Before we were talking about how happy Pepper was when she was single, we were talking about the Duchess.

The Duchess had sent me a text the previous day about this single guy she knew (or knew of, it was never really clear) who was a billionaire, but also really short, but a billionaire and so she wondered if I could look past my height requirement for a billionaire. I think she then sent another text, reminding me this guy made billions and I would be a fool to not at least let her give him my number. When I responded, I told her he should take some of his money, go to China and have his shins lengthened. But that would still only get him a first date with me. I wouldn’t promise anything more.

After we all stopped laughing at my ridiculousness and the Duchess’s relentlessness, Pepper chimed in, “But you don’t even seem to mind being single.”

We then went on to discuss all the reasons why being single is sort of awesome and that is when Pepper revealed she was happiest when she was on her own.

Open Letter to Marie Claire

Dear MC,

I visited my hometown last weekend to check in on my parents, but mostly to get my hair done (my Mom and Dad will probably out-live us all, not to mention I had just seen them the weekend before when we went to the Phillies game). Waiting for me upon my arrival was a stack of magazines, almost up to my knees and in that pile were a couple of Marie Claires.

See, my mom has a subscription to just about every magazine published. She curates from her collection a selection that she think I would enjoy and leaves them in a pile for me.

My mom was most excited to show me your June issue. Right there on the cover, she pointed out, was a story I was sure to love: “The New Revolution. Love and the Single Girl.”

The next day, over breakfast, my mom asked me what I thought of the article. I rolled my eyes and told her it annoyed me. I then started explaining why. The problem is, I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that so bothered me.

Ten Really Stupid Reasons to Get Married

So, this weekend, while avoiding talking to the creepy guy sitting next to me when I was waiting for take-out, I stumbled across this gem.


Now, I have a lot to say about the single versus married woman (so be prepared as the next couple of posts will be dedicated to it). Mostly, I don’t understand why we are battling, but that is beside the point of this post. This post is to point out that while there may be 10 legitimate reasons out there for single women to get married these aren’t it.

1. Prevents you from dying alone. And now, on this the 16th day of July in the year 2012, I declare this cliché beaten down and dead. First, I have a family and a lot of friends. I am pretty sure when the time comes for me to bite it, they will be by my side. Second, getting married doesn’t guarantee me that my partner won’t divorce me before I die, thus won’t be contractually obligated to hold my hand as I cross over. Third, as my brilliant friend Alexandra pointed out on Twitter, on average women outlive men. So even if I get married, and we stay together, chances are he is going to kick the bucket before I do.

Is Imitation the Sincerest Form of Flattery?

I have a question for my married and engaged readers out there, but before I ask, let me explain.

Last night, Marie and I were celebrating with some cheap wine and what is becoming our favorite happy hour haunt. Marie excuses herself to use the ladies, and I take the opportunity to do some people watching (we were sitting outside because it wasn’t 100 degrees with 99 percent humidity and like all good Philadelphians we took advantage of it).

Caveman Guitarist

As I sat watching what can only be described as a guitar playing caveman, I listened as our waitress took the drink order of the women behind me. She cut them off mid-question and exclaimed, “Are you both wearing the same engagement ring?”

Zack Morris time out: I love brash, 20-something waitresses. They remind me of myself in my glorious youth. Time in.

Fifty Shades of Gross

Like everyone else in America, I had heard of this new super series, Fifty Shades of Grey. I knew it was steaming up the bedrooms and bathrooms of women everywhere and I was even interested in reading it myself.


That is until my father told me he was reading it.

Now, I’m not a prude, nor is anyone in my family. But we all have a quiet understanding that I’m a virgin, Ivan was a virgin until he was married, as was Lana who is now saving herself for her next husband, and that our parents had sex only three times. It works for us, because, let’s be honest, thinking about a family member having sex is disturbing.

This bubble was burst when I climbed into my father’s jeep and he asked, “Have you heard of the book, Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“I have. It is basically porn (I can’t say erotica to my father). You don’t want to read it.”

“I already started it.”

I made an incredulous face.

Why More Men Should Speak Out Against Victim Blaming

I recently learned that a football player at my alma mater has been suspended from both the school and team after he was accused of rape.


You can read all about the story, here, but the cliff notes version is a young woman alleges the football player invited her to his dorm to watch TV, she went there, he raped her, she fought him off, and then he later sent her a text asking if she was going to press charges.

I read about this story where I get most of my news these days on Facebook via Twitter. And, unless you have been living under a rock, you know Facebook allows everyone that wants to, to comment on the post (as do most websites these days). It was in the comments that what I read turned my stomach (probably not a good sign that reading about rape no longer upsets me, but I digress).

Comment after comment blamed the young woman for putting herself in that situation in the first place, for going back to the football player's dorm room alone to supposedly watch television. One commenter incredulously asked “who the hell goes to someone else's room in college to watch the damn TV.”

Umm. I did. All the time. I wasn’t raped once.

Two Birds, One Stone

Didn’t I tell you all I would solve the matter of yummy?


Okay, so I didn’t solve it. Cricket did. But it is solved. And the best part, it also plays into my desire to travel more.

The answer is vacation yummy.

I will give you all a moment to slap your foreheads, mutter of course, and then shake your heads while you wonder why it took us all so long to think of it.

Now everyone on the count of three, let’s say “Thank you, Cricket.”

I can’t believe it was just sitting there the whole time. Such an obvious solution. I mean, every women’s magazine has written on the phenomenon that is the holiday hook-up. Discussing how, when you are away, your inhibitions are lowered, and you find it easier to meet and flirt. Of course the magazine then offer tips on how to harness that power to find something more meaningful, but I say – eff that. I am going to use this super power to get some. And then I am going to get on a plane and never think about the guy again.

Now the only question that remains is where to first?

My Inner Athlete

I was recently out with the girls when Bridie noted that it seemed “I had gotten my athlete back.”


For those of you that don’t know, I used to be an athlete: a Division 1, full college scholarship athlete. But I lost it. Well, not so much lost as suppressed. Not because I wasn’t proud, but because, during my four years of college among the many things I learned about myself, I discovered I am a terrible loser. My competitive side, is not my pretty side.

But something happened to me recently that brought my athlete out of retirement.

For the past several years I have run a half marathon in my hometown. It started as something my brother and I did, but I liked the race so much, that I continued to run it, even after he flew south.

The Jet Set

One of the best things about being single is that at any time you can pick up and go whenever you feel like. I mean isn’t that the very thing we singles brag about all the time when sitting with our coupled-off friends? Sure. Co-habitation is nice; always having someone to snuggle with on a cold rainy Sunday is awesome. However, if I want to spend the weekend in Europe, I can. Just like that. No questions to answer. Just pack my credit card and take off.


Except, who really just randomly takes off to Europe? Or Mexico? Or Africa?

Well, it turns out, I do.

Or at least it was offered to me. A friend of mine randomly emailed me late last night with a proposal. Along with a bunch of her friends, she was headed to Morocco. Now, one of the friends had back out. So, if I wanted to, I could join them for a week in Marrakesh.

Did I want to go?

Hell to the yes.

But could I go?

Well. That is slightly more complicated. I have the money (I would be eating Ramen noodles for a while, but I could make it work) and the time to take. But it would mean cancelling other plans and living under the weight of a huge credit card bill, and worrying that something should happen and the money or time that I now needed was spent in Africa.  

And therein lies the rub. Yes. I am single and childless. But I am not without responsibilities. I have a job and a credit score and bills. While it is lovely to fantasize that I can just pick up and run off to Rome at a moment’s notice, I can’t.

Or can I?

After all, work and bills will be there when I get home. I lived on Ramen noodles before, I can do it again. So why not take off for Morocco? I don’t have to make arrangements for a sitter. Or assure my boyfriend that my single girlfriends and I will be on our best behavior. I did just buy a maxi orange skirt that would look awesome wandering around a bazaar in Marrakesh. Isn't it my responsibility as a footloose and fancy-free single girl to go on this trip?

Maybe, but it's not me. I am neither footloose nor fancy-free. I tried to be. I got all the way to entering my credit card information and almost hitting the purchase button, but the anxiety and questions and nausea were just too much. I need to plan and map and chart and budget and see it all laid out in front of me. All I saw before me were questions I couldn't answer for sure.

So, I closed the browser instead.

Table for One

Sometimes it’s lonely being single. Of course it is. But sometimes the loneliness hits you when you least expect it.

Friends and I signed up for a party run. For the uninitiated -- a party run is a race followed by a party. But by the time the race came around, everyone had backed out for one reason or another.

Everyone except me.

Now, typically I run by myself, so it wasn’t the race that worried me. It was before the run that had me freaking out. Before a run you are just standing around, talking with friends, trying to keep warm, thinking about bailing, and wondering why you keep signing up for these things.  You hop around, you laugh, judge other runners and wait for the starting gun. But when you are alone, well, you just stand there. Alone. Surrounded by hundreds of people.

Of course I thought about bailing, too, as I walked down to the start. I kept thinking I can just go home. No one will know.

But I had made a promise to myself earlier. If I went to run, I didn’t have to face the party. After all, this was my choice -- to be single. And being single means sometimes I will be all by myself. Sometimes there will be things I want to do that no one is contractually obligated to do with me. But all that pep talk aside, I still wasn’t ready to go to a party alone.

When I finally made it to the starting line, it wasn’t nearly as bad or as lonesome as I feared. I saw people I knew, talked to them for a bit. Checked my bag, lined up at the start. Saw CK. He wasn’t running but was waiting dutifully with his new girlfriend. I waved. He waved back. Then the gun went off, I took off, and before I knew it, the race was over and I had finished the four miles in a time that even shocked me.

I was feeling so good post-race, I almost wanted to brave the party.

Maybe next year.

The Matter of Yummy

I realized early on in my single for life adventure that there was a flaw in my system.

The flaw, as some of you may have already guessed, is what to do about sex.

Now, for some, this isn’t a flaw at all. Unfortunately, for me (and maybe others of you out there) I don’t have an eff buddy (nor have I had much luck with them in the past) nor do I have a friend with special benefits (this, too, in the past has proven to be a special kind of disaster). And while I know, thanks to one of my guy friends, that getting a stranger to have sex with me is as easy as walking into a bar and just saying, “Yes.” I’ve never been super comfortable with one night stands. Yes, I have enjoyed my share, but the self inflicted guilt and shame I experienced the next morning (which has increased over the years) diminished any enjoyment I remember from the evening prior.

So, what does a girl like me do for a little something-something? This is the exact question that my dear friend Cricket and I were contemplating over a pitcher or tequila. Because the whole thing has be recently fantasizing about a relationship. A relationship I don’t want anywhere else but the bedroom.
Cricket is still on the fence about the whole single for life thing for herself, but she fully embraces it for me. She too, is just concerned about my lack of yummy, especially as it concerns my inability to carry on a conversation with Hot Attorney, but more on that later.

The first obvious solution was that I get involved with a professional baseball player.  And while I am still working this angle, I figured it would make sense to explore other options as well. Especially for those of you out there that don’t live in a city with a professional baseball team.

Another option that came to us after our third round was getting involved with a married man. Forgetting for a moment the moral objections one might have with this arrangement, for someone like me, this could work. However, I really try to keep my life as drama free as humanly possible and sleeping with another woman’s husband is just inviting crazy into my apartment.

Still, a married man wouldn’t likely develop feelings for me. The boundaries of our relationship would be very clear, dictated by the fact that he has a wife he shares his feelings with. I would just be someone he shared his bed with. And really, isn’t that what brings so many of these friends with benefits relationships crashing to a halt. Often, one of the partners confuses sex (or the hormonal release post orgasm) with love. For my part, I can control how I feel (and even when I can’t, I can get out before I get too hurt). But what about him? What happens if its his line that starts blurring? I like hurting people even less than I like drama in my living room (unless it is Law & Order).

Ideally, what I am looking for is someone I find attractive, but could never actually be attracted to. So he would have to be less than smart and/or less than funny and/or a Dallas Cowboys fan. He would also need to find me attractive without being attracted to me. Maybe there is an expiration date (he is only in Philadelphia for school or a work assignment) or perhaps he has a rule about falling in love with someone who worships Peyton Manning.

So Cricket suggested I try meditating before bed, focusing on exactly what I am looking for and then asking the universe to bring him to me. We then agreed this seems a lot like masturbation, so I decided I would also put this out in this universe and see if you guys could bring me a solution.

But know this, other spinsters, I am working on the problem. And when I find an answer that works for all of us, I will share it with you.

The Family Jewels

My mother has taught me two things (well, she has taught me a lot of things, but these two are the most important): How to work hard and how to treat oneself.

My mother’s treat of choice: jewelry; specifically, diamonds. Over the years she has amassed quite a collection and every once in a while, she will let me borrow something. Last weekend, when I was visiting, was such an occasion. She let me go home with a tennis bracelet.

Before I left she warned me not to lose it.

That’s a joke. I am her neat-freak, super-organized, type-A daughter. Sure I get drunk every now and again, but the only thing I ever lost of value is my virginity. Her bauble would never be safer.

Fast-forward to yesterday, and I am at the gym. I had come right from work and was still wearing the bracelet. I contemplated leaving it on, but I hate girls that wear a lot of jewelry when they workout. I was also afraid something would happen to break it. The problem was, my gym/work back is huge and small things disappear in it all the time. There is probably $47 in change floating between the lining and the leather right now.

As I stood there, torn between taking my chances in class or with my Bermuda Triangle of a bag a brilliant idea occurred to me. I took the bracelet off, stashed it in a secret, super-safe spot and then jumped on a treadmill.

The next morning, after my run and shower, I went to my dresser to retrieve my jewelry. The earrings and the necklace I wear everyday were both there, but the bracelet wasn’t. I didn’t panic because I remembered I never took it out of its hiding spot.

I then went to my gym bag, pulled my wallet out, unzipped the change department and discovered the bracelet wasn’t there.

Oh. Holy. God.

I looked again. Pulled all the change out and looked a third time. Put the change back in, went back to the dresser, and then looked in my wallet (which I was still holding) for a fourth time.

Now, on mornings following a crazy night of drinking, I typically experience 15 minutes of panic as I tear through my apartment to confirm I still have my wallet, phone, and everything I wore out the night before. Those anxiety attacks were nothing compare to the heart palpitations I was experiencing after I came up empty the fourth time.

If I lost my phone or my wallet, it would suck and going through the chore of shutting everything off and replacing it would be inconvenient, but I would manage. And I have already lived through the challenge of waking up without an item of clothing, but this? There was no living through this. My mother is still angry about a dent in her truck (that is no longer hers) that I didn’t put there but may have happened in a parking lot while I was borrowing it.

That was just a small dent. This was her tennis bracelet. I started emptying my bag and wondering if the gym was open yet. The worst case scenario running through my head was that someone saw me put it in my wallet and then took it. My best case scenario was that I missed the change pouch and it landed in my bag. Somewhere in the middle was that it landed on the floor next to my locker. Would someone have turned it in? People are good right? Or maybe it really was in my bag. I am a good person. The universe could throw me a bone on this one.

Then my sunglasses' holder tumbled onto my couch and my heart stopped in a good way (if that is possible). I didn’t put it in my change purse. I put it in my sunglasses' holder. Right?

My breath caught as I slowly opened the case. There it was. In all its glory and sparkle.

And thank goodness. Because otherwise, I would be writing this post from the lam.

The Ladies Privilege

It came to my attention (and not because of the terrible Amy Adams’ movie) that Leap Day has historically been a day when it is perfectly acceptable for women to propose to men.

Now, setting aside the fact that I think it is always acceptable for women to propose to men and that I have no intention of getting married and thus have no intention of getting down on one knee to ask a man to be my groom, I do like the idea of proposing to someone today. So long as we all understand that by propose, I don’t mean marriage but merely making out with me until March.

Now, kiddies, back in my day, I wouldn’t have needed a special day on the calendar to approach a random guy and say, “You. Me. Lip-lock. Now.” Sadly, though, I don’t know where that girl went. I mean, I have some idea – she might have been run off by all those fools who kept telling her guys don’t like aggressive girls. But I digress. It is 2012. I am older and not much wiser and now require an occasion to get my groove on.

Ideally, I would propose to CK, but since the chances of randomly bumping into him are slim and none, and this doesn’t feel like the sort of thing one should plan, I crossed him off the list. This also eliminates Peyton, Ryan and Daniel from proposal contention. Leaving my two current crushes, Trainer Boyfriend (who is not really my boyfriend, aka Fake BF) and Hot Attorney.

Forgetting for a moment that he is so hot he melts my face off, when it comes to Hot Attorney, it actually shocks me a bit I haven’t already blurted out “Do you wanna make out?” I’m also shocked that I have refrained from doing anything else to make myself entirely too ridiculous to ever consider desirable. Maybe for this reason alone I won’t be throwing myself at Hot Attorney today. Or maybe it is because as horrific as rejection would be, I think it would be worse to actually have to come into the office tomorrow knowing what his mouth tastes like and not be able to do anything more about it.

This brings us to Fake Trainer Boyfriend. He is hot. I want to make out with him. I am going to the gym after work. This should be a no brainer. Except, that is exactly the problem. I’m not sure he has much of a brain. He starts talking and even when he is talking about something he should know about (like hamstrings, or quads, or the Brachialis muscle) he just doesn’t sound bright. And while much, much younger me wouldn’t have minded, current me struggles to get hot and bothered by someone who I worry might not be able to spell hot or bothered.

I think I’m beginning to understand why guys get so worked up about proposing. Thank god we women only have to deal with this once every four years.

Valentine’s Day Wrap-Up

For more than 20 years I have hated Valentine’s Day. I say more than 20 even though I am more than 30 because I am pretty sure I loved Valentine’s Day as a kid. Then again, as a kid you don’t worry that the candy is going to make you fat and you were pretty much guaranteed a valentine from everyone in your class.

Four years ago, I had a boyfriend, and still managed to mess up Valentine’s Day. Three years ago, I was in the Poconos, with Bridie and her boyfriend, texting the Republican. Two years ago I promised not to hate the day, but still ended up drunk and sad, and then last year, well, last year was a blur, so I’m guessing more alcohol was involved.

This year was different. As the day grew closer I noticed my animosity didn’t grow; my mood didn't sour. I didn’t scoff at any of the thousands (yes thousands) of emails about Valentine’s Day specials, I didn’t fret about being out in NYC the Saturday night before, heck, I even wore red on the big day. I didn’t want to jinx my attitude, but I did begin to wonder if accepting that I was going to be single for life also released Valentine’s Day’s hold over me.

Still, part of me was convinced the lovefest couldn’t last. Part of me was waiting for the tears and self-hatred that always comes on February 14.

Now, earlier this year (or maybe it was last year) I made Rifka (a friend I met while trying to find a new best single girlfriend) sign-up with me for a Valentine’s Day Single’s Run. If anything was going to shake my bliss, surely being in a room of sweaty singles on the most romantic day of the year would do it.

Except, it didn’t. I enjoyed the run. Laughed with some strangers. Rifka and I got hit on by a couple of guys who bought us a round of drinks, it was actually a lot of fun.

And as I stood there, overhearing other conversations, women complaining about being alone and sad and just wanting somebody – anybody – I felt so relieved. I wasn’t angry or sad that I didn’t have a boyfriend. I wasn’t questioning my worth because this guy was hitting on me and not someone I perceived as better that was hitting on someone else across the bar. I didn’t feel rejected, later, when that guy started hitting on someone else, and I didn’t feel like a loser when Rifka and I cut out to grab burritos on our way home.

Instead, I felt incredibly lucky.

It was a Valentine’s Day miracle.

Trainers are the New Bartenders

As I mentioned in passing a couple of weeks ago, I am trying to lose some weight. In addition to cutting back on the wine, I've also been exercising.

So, a week ago I am in a class, trying to focus on rowing at an 80 percent threshold – whatever that means – when the instructor (or coach as he prefers to be called) came up to me and asked if I was a rower.

I responded I used to be.

He responded, “I can always tell a rower. It’s the dedication and focus on your face.”

What? I had so many thoughts jump to the tip of my tongue, but then I remembered I was supposed to be at 80 percent and I couldn’t remember when Women’s Health told me I should be able to hold a conversation but I was pretty sure it was something less than 80 and so instead I smiled weakly and continued rowing.

Then this week I was again in a class with this coach, again worrying about whether or not I was giving it my 80 percent, when he approached me. He looked at my numbers, smiled, made another strange comment – this time about my personality – and walked away.

Now, as terrible as I am at flirting, I am even worse at recognizing when someone is doing it to me. Still, as I climbed up the simulated hill, I couldn’t shake the feeling this guy was.

But that didn’t make sense. I wasn’t wearing any make-up, I was sweating and wearing spandex that did nothing to hide any of my squishy parts. Still, stranger things have happened. Climbing got a little easier as I contemplated whether or not I wanted to make-out with my trainer. He’s cute in that I obviously work for a gym sort of way, he has crazy muscular arms, and that D’Angelo v-thing going on. He’s not quite 6 feet tall, but I can slide him under the Jason Statham Exception but just as I decide it would happily make-out with him, I spy him flirting with a woman on a treadmill directly across from me.

A little while later, he was back at my side, this time touching me and asking me, “do you feel that?” I understand correcting my form is part of his job, but whispering seductively into my ear (that is how I remember it)?

And that is when it hit me. It is part of his job. If he wants to keep his job – and by keep his job I mean keep clients like me coming back to his class – he flirts a little with the women. We think he actually likes us, that there could be something there, and keep coming back for more, essentially paying him to flirt with us until one day we discover he is married with three kids. Or gay.

He’s just like a bartender, but with lunges instead of lagers.

Now, I do have a rule prohibiting crushes on bartenders, however I don’t think I will write the same rule here. One, crushes in general are pretty fun and healthy and two, a crush on your trainer is extra healthy as it keeps you going to the gym.

Unlike a crush on a bartender that only keeps you drinking until way past last call.

A Tragedy on Spruce Street

I had a rough day at the office yesterday. Nothing I couldn’t handle, just a series of meetings, interrupting a number of emergency projects, punctuated with a ride in the elevator with Hot Attorney where I actually managed to not say something stupid but that is mostly because I was focused on not shoving my tongue down his throat so I kept my mouth shut.

So I was really looking forward to happy hour with some friends. But, my day got crazier and crazier, and then I learned my friends were having just as hectic days, and it was decided we should postpone happy hour.

As I finished up at the office, I realized just how disappointed I was that I wasn’t getting a drink after work. See, in an effort to lose weight, I have cut back on my drinking and I had even saved up calories so I could have two glasses of wine after work and after the day I had I was really going to enjoy them.

On the other hand, I told myself, I should be happy that I can just go home and make dinner and not have to worry that two glasses would turn into three would turn into four and happy hour would end with me making a late evening fast food run.

Unfortunately, no matter how many times I told myself this, I still really wanted a glass of wine.

Now, I suppose, I could have gone to a bar and had a glass. But that sort of thinking didn’t occur to me. Instead, on my way home from work, I stopped at the liquor store and picked up a bottle – promising myself I would only have two glasses (and not bottomless glasses either).

I then picked up the necessary groceries to make myself a wonderfully healthy dinner to go with my red wine.

Walking (actually, more like strutting) down Spruce Street I was pumped for my evening. Just when I thought things couldn’t get better, Florence and the Machine came on my iPhone.

I was adjusting my bags so that I could turn up the music when tragedy struck.

I dropped the bag from the liquor store.

I heard the crash; I saw the red liquid pouring out across the sidewalk.

I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I knew I had to pick up the bag and that I didn’t need to clean up the spill (it was about to rain, after all) but frozen there I wondered, who can I call? Should I take a picture for Twitter? Do I go back to the liquor store for another bottle?

A man with a stroller walked by and asked if I wanted a napkin. I looked up at him, then down at the spill wondering what a single napkin would do, then double checked that none of the wine splashed up on my pants (thank goodness I didn’t have to take another pair of pants to the cleaners with a wine stain on them) and then said, “No. I think I’m fine.”

Clearly, though, I wasn’t.

But He's Single

There is a new battle cry coming from my camp of friends that don’t believe me when I say I am single for life.

It’s an interesting plan. Gone are the hypothetical situations where a super-hot guy in horn-rimmed glasses, with a great head of hair, a fantastic sense of humor, and Peyton Manning’s work ethic, walks up to me at a bar and declares I am the one he has been looking for and he can’t live another moment without me, he then drops down to one knee, opens a red leather box exposing a nearly flawless, 4-carat ,emerald cut diamond ring. They have been replaced with a simpler plea, “What about him?” pointing to the nearest guy who isn’t already talking to a woman.

I never said it was a good plan.

We were all out Friday night, and it got to that point in the evening where everyone had just enough alcohol in them to start trolling the bar for bedfellows. Or at least that is how it went in the good ol’ days. Now, I was the lone single ranger, and the only guy I would have even maybe considered making out with was gone, and I wasn’t even sure when he left which indicates to you just how interested I was in him.

Still, the Duchess, the leader of the declining rebel forces, wasn’t going to let dick o’clock pass without pointing out the several men within arm’s reach whom she thought I should be talking to. The conversations went a lot like this:

“Tati, what about that guy.”

Eye roll. “What guy?”

“That guy, there, in the blue fleece.”

Without looking. “He’s wearing a fleece.”

“He’s cute.”

I look over. “He’s short.”

“He’s not. He’s your height.”

“For the last time, that’s short.”

“He’s funny and has a good job.”

“He doesn’t live in the city.”

“He has a car.”

“Because he doesn’t live in the city.”

“But he’s single.”

Oh, well, then, it’s on like Donkey Kong. Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Let me just adjust my cleavage.

Now, if it sounds like I am being picky it’s because I am. It took a lot for me to get here – this happy place where I realized that I have a lot going on for myself. Those of you that have been reading this blog know there were some tortured moments as I tried to find happiness with someone. I realized along the way that even if I found the perfect guy referenced above, it would still require some compromise on my part to fit him into my life. So if I am going to have to give up even a part of my awesome, happy life, he is going to have to be worth it – that’s just basic economics; it’s called opportunity costs.

So, Number Five is going to have to have a lot going for him. Certainly more than just being single.

Number Five

I have been having a lot of conversations about choosing to be single for life. Mostly friends that either don’t believe me or want in. At some point, rather incredulously, people will say, “So, you are never going to get married.”

I’m not a super big fan of the word never. I find it almost always comes back to bite me. I am still ruing the day I told Bridie I would never tuck my jeans into boots.

So I came up with a list, the five guys I would be willing to leave the single life for. As follows, ranked in case two of them ask me to marry them at the exact same time:

1. Peyton Manning
2. Ryan Gosling
3. CK
4. Daniel Craig
5. TBD

I left spot number five open because during this journey I swallowed a lot of red pills of truth. One of these pills was that truth changes. Right now everything in my life is perfectly wonderful. I am happy and content (not the same thing) and looking forward to my next adventure and the one after that, and the one after that.

But I know that as I go on these adventures, and continue on with my life, things will change. I will change. And there may come a day that I can’t fathom right now, when I will meet someone that changes my truth. That makes risking all my happiness worthwhile.

Of course, it is just as possible that the five spot will never be filled and that is okay too. The thing is, I just don’t know and – as my mother would say – my crystal ball is at the shop getting fixed.

Let the Revolution Begin

Bridie and I were outside a friend’s party, smoking one of the last cigarettes either of us would ever smoke when she asked if I saw the latest Psychology Today. (Side note: As you know, Bridie is a therapist and subscribes to this magazine. When we lived together, I started reading it because it really is a fascinating magazine and to this day I will often pick up a copy when I am at Whole Foods, however being this conversation took place at the end of the year and it was my last chance to be decadent, I hadn’t been to a Whole Foods in quite some time).

I told her I hadn’t.

She told me there was an article in it that I should read – about choosing to be single. She then added that while she doesn’t believe I will be single for live, the article did raise some interesting facts about single people and the misconception that they all want to get married.

I looked at her and declared that I had started a revolution (even though I am sure the magazine went to print before I posted that blog) and then I flashed the gang sign for “Single for Life” that I have been working on.

She rolled her eyes.

The next day, I decided a trip to Whole Paycheck (err Foods) was in order. I even picked up some healthy groceries while I was there.

I got home, got out the hummus and pita chips (What? That is sort of healthy) and opened to the article I heard so much about the prior day. Soon, I was grinning as if I had too much wine and there was a hot guy across the bar. (Another side note: Sadly, I looked and couldn’t find it online to share with you here. So you will have to pick up a copy of the magazine, but it is totally worth it – there is even a quiz.) Instead of promoting the Single for Life mantra that I am trying to get going, the author instead asks – Are You Single At Heart? She discusses America's obsession with getting married, and her own personal journey waiting for that day when she too would want to join the army of the happily coupled-off. Of course that day never came – she is currently in her late-50s and still loves being single.

The author then arms us (against pestering mothers and annoying frienemies) with some pretty impressive statistics debunking the myth that all us singles want only one thing – to be a we. According to a recent Pew survey, 55 percent of unmarried Americans said they weren’t in a relationship AND weren’t currently looking for one (and according to the recently census survey 100 million Americans are unmarried). That means there are approximately 55 million (if my math is right) Americans that feel the same way about coupling off as I do.

Suddenly, being single doesn’t feel so lonely.

And before you ask – I scored nearly perfectly on the Single At Heart quiz.

Open Letter to the Hot Guy in My Office

Dear Hot Guy in My Office,

As you know from your life of looking in mirrors and women behaving silly around you, you are hot; ridiculously so. If it seems like it is hard for me to look at you, it is because it is. You are that damn handsome and I am afraid of what will happen if I make eye contact. The last thing I want to do is become another silly woman.

Now, before you start to worry that this letter is a really lame attempt to ask you out, let me assure you it’s not. 1) You are much too good looking for me. 2) I know you have a girlfriend. 3) We work together and I have a rule about that, and 4) (and this is probably the most important one and should have gone first) I have just completed the outline of my “Single For Life” tattoo and it would be really expensive to have it removed. Not to mention a total waste of some very artistic lettering.

Still the possibility of me becoming a total moron around you looms large and with the recent elevator incident (I didn’t mean to flirt with you, it just sometimes happen), I feel drastic measures need to be taken on both our parts. I need you to think I am smart and competent. I would like you to respect me.

Now, I know I can’t ask you to be less attractive – I don’t think you could if you tried, I mean you even look good in plaid. However, I was able to come up with a list of things you can do that I think would improve our situation dramatically:

1) Stop wearing your glasses. I don’t care if you are hungover and trying to hide blood shot eyes. Your horn-rimmed glasses that make you look like Clark Kent are like Kryptonite to this Super Girl’s will power. Perhaps in the new year you can resolve to drink less and thus lessen your need for your glasses.

2) Stop standing directly outside my office, talking about how interesting you are to our co-workers. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to refrain from joining those conversations? I saw the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo this weekend too. I have thoughts about it. But I stayed in my office with my mouth shut because I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. If you really must share with our co-workers all the fun things you did this weekend, IM them. Or send them an email. Or wait until I am in a meeting. Just stop talking to them right outside my office.

3) Stop cursing. You are a really great curser which I know probably sounds like a strange compliment, but as someone that has always sounded too crass when I say any curse word, I really admire the ability in others to sound forceful but not trashy. When you curse, it sounds hot, and that isn't good.

Things you may feel free to continue doing are shamelessly flirting with the older women in the office and talking about your diet.

In return for any or all of these concessions, I will continue to avoid talking to you, looking at you, and engaging you in any way. This morning was a moment of weakness, and don’t anticipate it happening again.

I hope you have a wonderful and healthy new year.

Yours,

Tati