Charming, but single

Call me behind on the times, but I am just discovering MySpace. I’m not on FaceBook. I am on Friendster, but only because everybody else was doing it and I needed something to fill my time years ago while I was looking for meaningful employment. (Something I have very much of now.)

I obviously knew what MySpace was before I started playing around on it a bit. I don’t live under a rock. I’d just rather my supreme dorkiness on a blog than on “social networking” Web sites. Not for me. I’m at the age that kind of missed MySpace. People I know were on Friendster, but then we grew up before MySpace really took off. And the thought of making a MySpace profile at age 26 doesn’t suit me. At all. Funky backgrounds and embedded song clips abound. I’d have to get my sister to explain how it all works to me. No thanks. (And it all feels very high school cafeteriaish. Like I should only hope that the cool kids would add me as their friend. Ew.)

But I decided to cruise the MySpace a tad recently and I discovered the feature that lets you search by your high school and graduation year. And this puts Googling someone to shame. Sure, you can’t get all of the dirt Google gives you. But, you can make some pretty good assumptions based on amount of time dedicated to a profile, number of pictures uploaded, song choice and number of friends.

It was revealing. Lots of ladies from my school with babies on their hips. More than I thought I’d see. A lot of shots in bars, formal wedding pictures, pictures with men strategically cropped out. It’s funny to see who knows each other and who still hangs out and who got really bad blonde highlights and fake bakes too much. This one guy I (for some reason) had crushed on sophomore year now is a “single dad.” Interesting.

When I look at pictures of my classmates, some girls with whom I went to school from kindergarten through high school, it is odd to see them as adults. They look how 25 and 26-year-old women look. No more braces and bad skin and training bras. No more big bows in our hair and hot pinks backpacks and cliché formal dresses. Fewer faces round with baby fat. Ladies, we’ve grown up.

I closed down the site, amused with my trip down memory lane and settled in for my in-bed night routine. Vaseline Intensive Care lotion on the elbows, knees and feet. Burt’s Bees Cuticle Cream on the nails. Whole Foods Hand Salve on the, um, hands. I ran my fingers through my still-damp hair, chapsticked my lips, took my sinus medicine and was dropping everything into my purse when I stopped. I pulled out my compact and looked.

All of those pictures of my classmates got me thinking. Do I look older than I did then? I took one last look and scrunched my nose before I snapped the compact shut. I don’t think so, but I do see myself each day.

I suppose that matters.

I am turning off the RSS feed for this site because I’ve heard through the Grapevine that Google is allowing that stupid Ukrainian site to have ads again. Turning off my RSS feed seems to be the best way to keep my stuff off of the site.

I apologize to anyone (other than the Ukrainians) who use the RSS site for legitimate reasons. I don’t mean to overreact, but I’m in a bad mood about all of this.

Thanks, Google!

(From S: Part One is here.)

A single man is moving onto my parents’ street.

My mother is thrilled.

“You know how that house across the street from [Neighbor] just sold?” My mom said excitedly as we chatted over a glass of wine on Saturday afternoon.

I nodded. I hadn’t noticed that it was for sale, until the “sold” sign went up sometime this week.

“Well, a single 35-year-old man is moving in!”

She was ecstatic about the news and ready to sink her “Date My Daughter” hooks into him before any of the neighborhood’s other Mothers With a Single Daughter at Marrying Age could mark him as a Potential Future Son In Law.

I rolled my eyes and started outlining the numerous reasons why it was highly unlikely that I would want to date someone who lived down the street from my parents, across the street from a family friend and a few houses from one of the gossips from my parents’ church.

“I don’t have all of the details on him yet, S,” my mom continued, brushing aside my arguments.

She paused to sip her wine before continuing.

“But I met him and he is good-looking. He’s 35. Did I say that already?”

“Yes, Mom, you did,” I deadpanned. I was about to snottily ask why he was single if he is so great, but stopped because I wouldn’t want him (or any other guy, for that matter) asking his mother how I’m still single if I’m so awesome. That’s something many single women (and men) I know think, but never actually verbalize.

“Oh. Well … he’s recently divorced,” she said with a sense of trepidation.

I took a sip of wine and rolled my eyes again.

“What did he do?” I asked, heaping on the sarcasm. I sensed there was a story here.

“Apparently his ex-wife was just not a very nice person,” my mom said diplomatically.

“Of course.”

“But, like I said, I don’t have all of the details. He’s [Lady From Church]’s son.”

“Who?”

“She goes to our church! She worked at your school!”

“Oh.”

“So, doesn’t he sound great?”

I rolled my eyes again, realized that I was wearing sunglasses so she couldn’t see me.

“Mom, I’m not going to go after some guy just because he moved down the street from you,” I explained. “The whole neighborhood would know anytime I stayed there past dark.”

“Well, I thought you were looking!”

“What?”

“I thought you were looking for a boyfriend!”

“I’d like one, but I don’t need, like, you and everyone you know helping. I don’t HAVE to have a boyfriend,” I said. “I’ll find a man one day. On my own. Please don’t try to set me up with every man you meet, Mom.”

She seemed hurt and dejected.

“Well,” she huffed. “I don’t see them lining up down the block or anything. I just thought you might want some help.”

Still working on a post for this blog, but I wanted to let y’all know that I haven’t abandoned Charming Things.

Just yet.

I actually did a post for it, just now. About handbags. So, I’m pimping the other blog right now. I am.

Some days, like a few days ago, you wait. And it kills you. And you feel that if you have to wait any longer, you will go nuts. And you question if being an adult is worth it and you stress. The phone doesn’t ring. The e-mail never comes.

And then some days, like today, when you don’t have to wait on good news, when it just comes, you are so happy that your chest wells up with pride. Because you did it – you saw what you wanted and you got it. And even though change is scary and I ultimately feel like both celebrating and running to the bathroom because I’m so nervous I could vomit, I am accomplished and hopeful. I’ve worked hard for the career I want and the reward is more (and harder) work.

This is when I like being an adult. Very much so.

At lunch, I wanted to scream my good news, but I was with co-workers and the time is not right. Not yet.

I was munching on my salad when Little Mr. Small Town walked in and joined a table of women. They seemed to be meeting about work. As I stood by the register later, our eyes met and he smiled. We exchanged hellos, but I was fearful of going over to say something. What if he didn’t remember who I was and just recognized that he’d met me before?

So I just smiled, slid on my big glam sunglasses and gave a flirty wave as I left.

I gave the women from work, all married, the story of him giving me his business card.

“He probably thinks I was rude to not call.”

They burst into protest, wondering why I didn’t call him.

“I don’t know, I don’t get the card thing,” I said. “All of the sudden giving out your business card at bars is the new black.”

They shook their collective heads.

“No wonder you’re still single,” someone said.