Charming, but single

As I type, a yummy cocktail of codeine cough syrup and sweet tea is snaking its way into my belly – hopefully it will take over very soon. You see, I haven’t slept well in two nights and my doctor swears I don’t have the historic flu Worst Flu Season Ever flu, but he did agree that I definitely had a fever and a nasty cough. And my body is sore. And a killer headache. And the chills. And wheezing lungs. All of this earned me a shot and a super strong, and naturally disgusting, prescription.

Which doesn’t have much to with anything other than to say that I’m heavily medicated and lacking sleep, which is a dangerous combo. Indeed. (Case in point, The Blackberry just offered via text to make a housecall. When I rebuffed his advance and said I was fevery and icky, he responded with “That’s how I like ‘em.” Awesome side note: Apparently my cell phone, which uses predictive texting, hasn’t yet learned the term “slut,” so I had to teach it that so I could call him one.)

What’s weird is that today I’ve been thinking about doctors. My new primary care doctor. My orthopedist. (No more fracture! Can wear heels in a month!) And my OBGYN.

See, I’ve been taking recommendations for a new OBGYN. Because my old OBGYN is, well, old and he’s near retirement and, hell, he delivered me. Which is kind of a problem because he’s not delivering babies anymore. And whenever I think of this, I hear “I don’t know nothing about birthin’ no babies!” in my head.

I do.

So I’ve had to have the awkward conversation with people:

“Why do you need a new OBGYN?”

“Well, my guy is near retirement and he doesn’t birth babies anymore and I want to have babies in the next five to seven to 10 years.”

And that is so weird to say aloud. Because when you’re single and 28 with no prospects and no potential father in mind, picking a new OBGYN because you want to one day have babies seems a bit off. And I’m sure people are thinking, “Oh yeah, before you pick an OBGYN to birth your imaginary unmade baby, maybe you should pick a man, mmmkay?”

But, you know, since you only see an OBGYN once a year (ideally), you only have so many years to establish a doctor-patient relationship. Shouldn’t you start now instead of waiting until you actually get preggers?

This is one of those moments where planning for the future seems a bit futile. And maybe it is the fact that I haven’t washed my hair in two days and I’m sniffly and full of phlegm and I’m in my rattiest sweatpants, but I seem so far from ever finding a partner at this exact moment that changing OBGYNs to find someone who will birth my as-yet-and-possibly-never-conceived baby seems overly idealistic.

And, ohmygoodness, I just laid out my procreation timeline for the entire Internet.

I’m blaming the codeine.

If you did all of the following this weekend …

• Worked.
• Bought a light brown (I’ve decided it is a “pale latte” color.) Antonio Melani handbag on sale. (Regularly $199, I got it for $49.)
• Wished someone would make a cell phone with a breathalyzer to prevent drunk texting.
• Drank margaritas with friends instead of watching the Oscars.
• Became annoyed with the people at a newly opened wine bar who were standing around taking up space while they drank Miller Lite from the bottle. (The point of a wine bar? Is not to drink crappy domestic beer and stand around looking bored.)
• Slept in one day.
• Grumbled about not having someone to sleep in with.
• Pined after a certain cute, smart guy.  (Attention cute, smart guys: Stop having girlfriends.)
• Practiced walking nice and smoothly for a big appointment at the orthopedist on Monday. (The fracture will be healed. It must!)
• Became obsessed with “Love Today” by MIKA.
• Prepared to launch an all out War on Dillard’s because their salespeople refused to look in the back for my size in a shoe that was on super sale, saying that they had everything out. (I happen to know that they DID have more shoes in the back because they pulled different sizes of sale shoes for one of my girlfriends and her mother. IT IS ON.)
• Failed to write three coherent sentences.

… then you’re me.

Say you’re on the verge of doing something that will be a lot of fun in the short-term, but will probably be a mistake in the long run. But not a huge mistake. No one will die, it isn’t illegal or unethical. Your expectations are clear. Crystal clear.

You’ll end up grumpy at the end of it all, sure. But you were grumpy before it happened and you can pretty much be sure that you’ll stay in grumpy equilibrium – you won’t be grumpier in the end than you were in the beginning.

And while you’re doing the thing that you know will ultimately only bring you short-term amusement, you’ll at least be amused and occupied at the time.

Yes, say you’re about to enter murky waters and you know, from the get go, that what you’re planning on doing is just a temporary fix. Do you go for the immediate gratification anyway or do you do the sensible thing and wait it out and occupy yourself in the meantime?

After a long week and knowing that I would be facing another one, I opted to go out on Saturday night, rather than making the wise, responsible choice to rest. No, not me, why rest when you can lug your heavy ankle cast around while you go out for a glass of wine or two?

So I threw on a black dress, poufed my hair and was on my way. As I hobbled down the street from my parking spot, I grinned as I happened to walk past the nun who was the principal of my high school. Should I have stopped to say hello? Possibly. But what does that conversation sound like?

“Why, hello, Sister. Yes, I am heading to a bar at 11 p.m. at night where I will drink alcohol. No, I do not think my cleavage is inappropriate. God made it, right?”

I didn’t think so.

After an hour or so at the wine bar the friends I was meeting were heading to another place that I didn’t want to go. Unready to go home and with Prom Date not free to meet me for a drink, I decided to call on an old standby.

The Blackberry.

Now, I haven’t hung out with him in months and I haven’t been at the cigar bar in as long. But he is a regular there and I knew, for sure, that he would be sidled up to the bar. I sent him a text and he returned it. And so I went to meet him.

Sure, he’s driven me crazy in the past. And I generally dislike him sometimes. But there are times – usually when he’s one on one with me – where he isn’t a total jerk. And while that isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, it is a passable reason for why I met him for a drink.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the length of time since I last kissed a guy, maybe it was the delirium (I’d been up until 2 a.m. the night before and then up again at 6:30 a.m. and it was well after midnight by this point), but I was flirting with him. And he was flirting back. I felt good and he was there and making it very clear that he was interested in me. It felt good to be flirting and to have someone flirt back – I’ve been in a funk that’s lasted for several months and I needed some flattering. I’m not ashamed to admit that the attention felt good – really good.

And then it was near closing time and we were walking out of the bar. He paused by his car, wrapped an arm around my waist and gave me a kiss.

I pulled away. If I went home with him, I’d surely regret it. It may have been nice to be flirted with, but I deserve someone I actually like and who actually likes me back – and I’d just be another conquest for him, or at least that’s how he’d tell the story.

“You. Are a man whore,” I said.

“And?”

“And I’ve gone a whole year without dealing with your kind,” I said. “And I’m not ready to break my streak now.”

He kissed me a again, but I stepped back, smiled and waved good night, and then tried to look as confident and sexy as you can look when you’re hobbling toward your car in a little black dress and a knee high walking cast.

I missed my three year blogiversary, which was last month on January 19. Damn, has it really been that long?

Three years and here’s all I have to show for it — ridiculously well-documented proof of my failed attempts at dating and my single girl woes, a shameful case of writer’s block and, even worse, a feeling that my silly hobby might mean more to me than I care to admit.

481 posts. 7494 comments. 493,187 visits (or views?) just since I launched over here at WordPress last year.

With all of that writing and all of that free advice, you’d think I would have learned something by now, right?

I started the year worrying about how my younger brother was getting married before I did. Which is pretty funny because that’s the same way I’ve been feeling now, a year later, ever since my young cousins suggested over Sunday dinner I go out with their 30-year-old reading teacher, who is actually 55 and married with five kids.

That tells you something about how kids view the world and the adults who inhabit it.

And when I asked why, they said “Because [Your Brother] is going to beat you and if you don’t hurry up, so is [Your Sister].”

They say the darndest things.