Charming, but single

I don’t know why I thought it would make me feel better, but I decided on Sunday to check out of life for awhile, go off the radar and see a cheesy romantic comedy (Definitely, Maybe) all by my lonesome. My goal was to not think about anything but silly dialogue.

This was, of course, impossible. I’ve never been able to fully shut off my mind and remove myself from my often busy life before. And Sunday was no different.

My mom, always a source of reality, looked at me this week as I juggled a purse stuffed full of my daily armor – a notebook, two cell phones with chargers and earpieces, Tylenol, my Lauren clutch that doubles as a wallet, a slew of pens and highlights, a folder of two of assorted work papers, an iPod and a makeup bag – and asked, quite simply, “What if you had a husband right now? Can you imagine working this much if you had a family?”

Truth be told, I couldn’t.

I brushed off her question with a shrug and pointed out for the millionth time that I’m doing this now so that I don’t have to do it later, but her comment lingered with me as I stayed with my three cousins last night so their parents could have a much-deserved night out. As I hustled to keep up with an inquisitive two year old who melted my heart with his big eyes, inane jabbering and adorable ways – to get him to eat a carrot I’d zoomed it around like an airplane and planted it in his mouth and he immediately grabbed another carrot and mimicked my motions, shoving it in my mouth, as if to say, “Lady, if I’m eating this, so are you” – my doubts about my current situation flared up.

I don’t know if life has to be an either/or situation. Either you work your tail off all of the time at the detriment to your personal life or you focus only on your relationships and your career suffers. Maybe I can’t accept that life could be so black and white because I wouldn’t be happy if it were. I don’t want it to be.

There is this longing in my personal life for something more than single serve takeout dinners and bad reality television. And it has been evident, painfully so, for quite some time. But by never doing anything about it, by never fully dragging myself out there, by nesting in my comfy cocoon, I can save myself a modicum of rejection. I suppose.

But the one-note, work-all-of-the-time lifestyle isn’t saving me heartbreak anymore. If being rejected and feeling unloved by one particular man stings, I’ve realized lately that setting myself up to feel completely rejected by the world might hurt even more. I should giggle and enjoy a silly movie about love or hearing about an acquaintance’s engagement or a college friend’s new baby. Instead I’m angry and bitter and twisted and moved only to the point where I’m asking, “What about me?”

I do want to be the Woman in the Song – the one who makes him crazy, keeps him up at night, without whom his days would all be nights. And even as I think that, I immediately reject the notion of such as pure fantasy. We don’t all get to be the heroine. We aren’t all the Woman in the Song.

Not that I would ever give myself the chance to be Her. I’m too wrapped up in other things to truly put myself in much of a position to be loved. It’s much easier to stay stuck and blame my lack of love on anything and everything else.

I’ve become whiny. My true personality is almost unrecognizable at times. I look in the mirror and I see drive and dedication to something external. And when I do turn that focus on myself, it is only superficial – a haircut or a shopping trip or a new handbag. For someone who can be so self-centered sometimes, I sure haven’t figured out how to focus any self absorption on soothing my own soul, quieting my own fears and making myself any less alone (or lonely).

Anytime I do manage to project an air of aloof calmness, my Devil May Care attitude is purely a front. As it was the other night when, after asking for my card three weeks ago, saying he would call (he didn’t) and alluding in e-mail to the fact that we would be seeing each other before last Thursday’s group outing to a concert (we didn’t), a certain Flirty Wine Distributor ignored me during said group outing. (And I’m not writing about him right now, but if I were I’d mention how unacceptable and rude that behavior was.) To my girlfriends, I rolled my eyes, bought my own beers and announced that I was over the snub because clearly he wasn’t worth it. To myself, I wondered if he’d notice my relaxed attitude and how much fun I could have on my own and grimaced when couples danced to one of my favorite songs.

Lame.

And sure, I don’t actually care about my little Man Fling, who asked with trepidation the other day if I wanted a child and breathed a sign of relief when I said, “Yes, but not now.” But his quick Thank-God-She’s-Not-Going-To-Trap-Me answer stung more than it probably should have, so I shot back, “Yes, I want to get married first. And I know I won’t be marrying you.”

The Blackberry accused me of using him the other night, when I rebuffed his late-night advances but had earlier accepted a glass of wine from him at a bar. (And yes, he was in the wrong – I had my card out to pay for my glass of wine and he made a show of telling the bartender to put it on his tab. And even if I had demanded a free drink, I don’t subscribe to the notion that I owe any man anything in that or most any situation.) What struck me was that he might actually be right. I am letting him stroke my ego every few weeks. And I shouldn’t need attention from someone I don’t care about.

My point, which I seem to have lost, is that I am wholly unfocused toward any personal life goal right now. I shudder at the thought that I will wake up ten years from now, all by myself in this same two-person bed of my own making.

And, if only for right now and if only as a start, I’m not going to hide my fear of being alone because I want to seem strong or independent or evolved or modern.

I’m finished apologizing.

There comes a time in many a Southern Woman’s life that shakes her to the core and causes her to question much about her existence. Up becomes down. Right becomes left. The light goes away and everything becomes fuzzy.

And this time came twice for me on Friday.

“[Lawyer Friend] came with me to our first Junior League introduction meeting this week,” Southern Belle announced at dinner, nudging Lawyer Friend, one of our dinner companions.

I almost spilled my wine in my fancy roasted corn grits.

“You went to what meeting?”

You see, earlier that day one of my other good friends had announced at lunch that she too was joining the Junior League, though she appeared a touch skeptical about the whole thing. I’d almost put it out of my head when Southern Belle dropped her bombshell.

I’d assumed, obviously incorrectly, that my brushes with the Junior League were somewhat nixed when I decided after eight years of private elementary school and four years of all-girls private high school not to pledge a sorority in college. Truth be told, my friends now are a mixed bag of Greeks and GDIs, though in college I hung mostly with the latter rather than the former. I knew plenty of people when I entered college and had only briefly considered Rush when I was going to a school three states over. I wasn’t sure about the financial commitment and figured that while I had some of the credentials – the right high school, good grades, a laundry list of extracurriculars and the potential to gather the appropriate recommendations – I wasn’t sure I was Sorority Girl material.  With my (at the time) lacking fashion sense, middle class family and hips and curves and cellulite, I figured the Chi Os and Kappas wouldn’t have me; truthfully, I wasn’t that upset about it.

To me, the Junior League always seemed to be an extension of this and the birthright of the rich girls with the naturally shiny hair that’s always in place, who wear pearls to the gym and eyeliner everywhere. A sorority for adults and a social club purporting to do “service” when there are a hundred nonprofit groups in the city that could actually use some warm bodies to serve and that wouldn’t charge anyone membership fees and require sponsorship by multiple League members. The whole thing seemed more about status and who knew who and rich doctor husbands and nice cars.

And so I simply never thought that in one day two of my close friends would announce their intention to join. As an aside, how am I even old enough to be in the Junior League? Isn’t that something that soccer moms do? A check of their Web site and the pending membership of three of my acquaintances prove that I am. That coupled with the gray hairs I’ve been spotting just makes me feel old.

So there I was at dinner, politely rolling my eyes and asking only mildly abrasive questions – Isn’t it expensive? Don’t most of the women not have jobs? Aren’t you supposed to be ridiculously rich to join? What is the minimum number of pearl necklaces one must have to apply?

“Come on, you could join the Junior League with us!” Southern Belle said.

“Why? If I want to hang out with you, I don’t have to join a club to do so,” I said. “Plus, I already work too much and am on a nonprofit board. If I wanted to do more service, I would just do it.”

“Well, this meeting, it was kind of interesting,” she said.

“You should see the clothes these women worse,” Lawyer Friend offered. “They were dressed to the nines.”

“Yes, they were. Like nice dressy dresses you and I would wear to a friend’s wedding. I think I saw someone in a wrap dress I wore for a special occasion. And that’s how she dressed for a meeting!” Southern Belle said.

Their interest seemed almost voyeuristic. And, in all honesty, I’m not going to drop a friend or two because they join a club, even if I do find it to be annoyingly exclusive. We all have our reasons and if my friends want to join to network or do more service or maybe make some new acquaintances, who am I to judge? And they’d asked about the service requirement and some of the members assured them they could commit to it, even with their busy jobs.

Later, I told my Mom, no fan of the Junior League herself, about this milestone I’d reached in my adult life. Her reaction was guarded.

“So, baby, are you going to join?” she asked cautiously.

“Mom, I didn’t get invited to join.”

“Well, I’m sure we could get someone to help you out if you really wanted to join,” she said and began to list people who might be friendly to me joining. I’ve got to hand it to my Mom, she will support us in whatever it is that we truly want to do.

“Mom, if I wanted to join, I could meet the people who invited my friends and get in next year,” I interrupted.

I stopped short of adding that my public relations background means I professionally know what to say in certain situations – meeting Junior Leaguers included – and could handle an introduction if I needed one made.

“So, will you try? Next year?”

“MOM, come on. Have you met me?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Well thank God,” she said.

And a look of relief spread across her face, as if she were thinking that even though we disagree on religion and politics and fashion and lifestyle and my opinionated nature and potential husbands and appropriate height of high heel and how much cleavage is too much and on the merits of Chardonnay versus Pinot Gris and timeframe for procreation and standard of housekeeping, she could finally relax knowing that at least I wasn’t going to become a Pod Person.

Background: here and here.

It was easy and effortless to see him again. He smells like himself, but it doesn’t feel as comforting when he places a hand in the curve of my hip, like I used to love.

Yes, that’s the truth. He’s not the same when I’m not seeing him through romantically rose colored glasses and a heady mixture of lust and optimism that kept me swooning each time I was around him. The little things I used to think were cute border on annoying now. His playful voice sounds childish to my experienced ears. And I didn’t expect for him to be quite so damaged and chatty about his last relationship.

“I’ve always been goofy,” he said when I rolled my eyes at a comment. “You know this about me.”

And I do. But I’d overlooked it because I’d liked him so much.

With everything – our past, his actions, my hurt feelings – out in the open, we can still have a good time. I was much more relaxed and everything, especially our intentions, seemed much more honest.

It is different, but I don’t regret seeing him.

For now, I’ll play it by ear. Because if it was so easy to see him again, I reason cutting off contact will be just a simple, even though my head tells me this probably just isn’t so.

Yes, I realize I’ve been painfully absent as of late. For a lot of reasons, I’m hoping the posting will be picking up steam again …

A continuation of this post.

Plans are fun to make. But when you get the news that the time is quickly nearing and plans will come to fruition, I don’t think that your first reaction should be your stomach rumbling. Never a good sign.

So I’m going the honesty route with some confidants to gauge their reactions and hopefully snap myself back into reality.

“I’m thinking of revisiting a person from my past,” I told Best Friend Ever.

“Why would you do that when he wasn’t good enough the first time around?” she asked.

“Because, it’ll be fun. Just casual.”

“This is a truly bad idea,” she said.

“No, it isn’t. No feelings. Just a fun way to pass the time.”

“This is a trend with you.”

“A trend?”

“You say you’re never going to get hurt and you say you’re not going care and you do get hurt because you do care.”

I told her that I didn’t think it was necessarily a trend and she reiterated that it was a truly terrible idea to revisit the past, if only for a fleeting moment of enjoyment. And I began to list all of the positives in a kind of whiny voice – why wasn’t she giving me permission to make this mistake? Friends are so frustrating sometimes, I was thinking.

She interrupted my incoherent rambling and said, “Aren’t there any nice guys out there that you haven’t dated before?”

“No, I am done. I am tired of propping my chest up in uncomfortable bras, I’m tired of wearing blush and worrying about my hair and smiling when I’d rather scream and having terrible fake conversations with men because I can’t find the one that I actually want to talk to because it isn’t fun out there. It is hard. And people are MEAN. And right now I’m too busy and too stressed out to get out there and find a new, worthy guy, so I’m going to hang out with an old one in hopes that this motivates me to put myself out there again.”

“Well, that sounds like a truly terrible idea,” she said.