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.