Charming, but single

I’ve finally had time to sufficiently rest from and process Best Friend Ever’s wedding this weekend. I’d expected to be sad and sniffly that the woman I’ve so often commiserated with was leaving me all alone in my singleness. And aside from a few tears upon seeing her glide down the aisle, all glamorous and beaming in an ivory gown with the biggest bridal bouquet that I ever did see (and a giggle when her veil got caught on her tiara when her parents tried to remove it), I didn’t feel heartbroken or alone or sad.

I felt a mixture of excitement and relief for my friend. And that’s me being completely, brutally honest – and this may make me a bad person, but I really did think I’d be cynical and bitter, not because I don’t want her to be happy, but because of my own jealously.

I surprised myself, I really did. Because it was ultimately uplifting and reassuring to know that her husband is caring and committed and loving and funny and interesting and warm. I know her past exploits and I wasn’t lying when, after a few cocktails, I danced with him and said, “We really are so happy for you and we know that you’re the right man for her and we all know that she got her a catch.”

Don’t get me wrong – I’m so terribly jealous that my two best buds from high school are married and that my rock from college is engaged. I want what they have. I want the lightness in my step, the gleam in my eye and the arm around my waist. But I don’t resent them for their happiness like I used to. Maybe it is the New Year and growing older and coming to terms with any number of things about myself, but I don’t blame anyone else for me being lonely right now.

But back to her wedding.

At some point in her perfect planning, she just threw up her hands and said, “All that matters is that I’m married at the end of the day.” And this pleased her and calmed her frantic planning and things fell into place and those things that didn’t really didn’t matter anyway.

And I hobbled down the aisle in my cast boot with a groomsman who, ironically, also had a bum foot from surgery. We all danced the night away, I may (ok, I did) give alcohol to a very underage boy who promised me he was 21 and Best Friend Ever’s younger brother, who at age 18 is a freshman in college, looked at me during a dance in a curious tone and said, “You know, I’ve heard some stories about you. I’ve always thought you were her wild friend.”

I half expected him to end the sentence with “Mrs. Robinson.”

I just smiled, narrowed my eyes, motioned to a fellow bridesmaid and high school classmate and said, “If you want wild, dear, you go talk to her.”

The afternoon started with text messages:

Me: Movie you have in mind?

Guy Friend: August Rush or Enchanted?

Me: Saw August Rush with my family. Fred Claus or Enchanted?

Guy Friend: Enchanted has McDreamy …

Decision made. I love having my gay boyfriend back in town. It was the two of us, Diet Coke and movie popcorn at a PG movie, drooling over the same man. He will never judge me for wanting to see bad movies, as he probably wants to see them himself. Now, if we could just get him to share my love of Vince Vaughn, we’d be set.

I almost feel bad about complaining about Enchanted because, well, I knew it was going to suck. But it’s been raining all day and I really just figured I could leave the house and see a movie or stay in and watch one alone. (Or continue torturing myself by looking at the online baby photo album The Nurse’s girlfriend put online. And, well, yes it was my fault for finding the photo album. I shouldn’t have been MySpace spying. And as annoying as it may be to see pictures of your ex and his baby, the “family” pictures of them with the baby are seared into my mind so that I will never consider his advances. And yes, there have been some.) And I took two college classes that talked about fairy tales and gender roles, so I was mildly interested in this modern portrayal.

Fine, that last reason is kind of crap, though I did actually discuss those topics in my classes. Did I mention that McDreamy was in the movie?

For a fleeting moment, I thought they might take it in a satirical, princes aren’t real, get over your fairy tale, forget the happy ending, move on direction. Because I am a complete idealist, obviously.  But this is a Disney movie and Disney makes it billions off of selling an ideal of castles and white knights and glitter and doves in heart-shaped flower arrangements. I don’t feel as if I’m spoiling things by saying that the movie ends exactly how you think it will. (And Idina Menzel’s character, of course, gets screwed after putting in five years to a relationship with an issues-having, workaholic single father.) But as I slouched in my seat and my friend whispered, “I feel so sorry for him, did he not read the script before he signed the deal?” I couldn’t help but feel a touch outraged for the swarms of young girls watching the movie, hoping upon hope that someday their prince would come. Being sure that they’d have the fairy tale wedding and ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after forever (and ever).

But I decided against making a scene, against telling them all that one day after being groped by drunk guys at a bar or going on a string of bad dates or being ignored by a guy they’d gone out with, they will collapse on their couch, exasperated, kick off their heels and curse loudly about how they would like their happy ending now, please.

Because, really, yelling at six year olds is an ill-advised way to go through life. Truth be told, that’s a realization I wouldn’t want to keep them from having on their own – there is something oddly reassuring in sitting in your own apartment and realizing that Prince Charming maybe hasn’t shown up but you’re still okay on your own. It gives me hope that I’m looking for a companion and partner and not someone to save me from a life of my own making.

So, I kept my self-righteous feminist monologue to myself and did what us modern maidens do on a rainy Sunday evenings: let the gourmet market cook dinner, stretch out on my bed with my laptop to finish a last-minute project and watch a re-run of America’s Next Top Model.

Twenty songs that remind me of college for some reason or another:

“Captain Jack” by Billy Joel
“Ride Wit Me” by Nelly
“What’s Your Fantasy” by Ludacris
“Ms. Jackson” by Outkast
“Sittin’ at a Bar” by Rehab (the version from 2000, not the redone version from 2006)
“Drops of Jupiter” by Train
“If I Had $1 Million” by the Barenaked Ladies
“If He Tries Anything” by Ani Difranco
“New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra
“You Don’t Have to Call Me Darling” by David Allen Coe
“Grace is Gone” by Dave Matthews Band
“Love Shack” by the B-52s
“Tiny Dancer” by Elton John
“Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond
“Carry On” by Pat Green
“Lit Up” by Buckcherry
“Thunderstruck” by ACDC
“No Such Thing” by John Mayer
The Sex and the City theme song
“Limp” by Fiona Apple

Note: Mildly incoherent rambling ahead.

Saturday I joined Southern Belle and The Lawyer to tailgate in style – a tent, a grill, a TV and some adult beverages. The Lawyer and I rolled up in the early afternoon (after Friday night of dinner out and a bottle of wine at my place) with orange juice and champagne.

“Isn’t it a bit late for mimosas?” someone asked.

“It is never too late for mimosas,” I deadpanned as we cracked open the first bottle.

The group was relaxed and fun, a far cry from my college days of pre-game drinking, when the goal was to drink as much beer and as many shots as we could possibly muster. We lounged about, and the women gathered to one side of the tailgate to talk about life and work and waxing and accessories. My aim on this afternoon and others like it is to catch up with friends and not think about the trials of adulthood, the bills to pay, the upcoming week at work.

Midway through the afternoon, The Lawyer suggested that we visit our “old” tailgating group, our friends from college who still get together each week with a big set-up that includes four tents and a machine that serves chilled shots of Jagermeister.

So we walked over for a visit and I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of awkwardness. A few people immediately rushed over to say hello, some of them I hadn’t seen in years. I hugged a newly married couple and another guy rushed over and drunkenly acted like he was humping my leg. One of The Lawyer’s old flings slurred a hello and proceeded to tease me about the same things he’d been teasing me about for years before pointedly mentioning his new girlfriend in a way that seemed totally out of place and as if he were making a point to The Laywer. I rolled my eyes behind my sunglasses.

The thing that made it awkward was that they felt the same – the same guys with the same jokes and the same friends, doing the same things we’d been doing at age 21. Only now we’re in our late 20s or early 30s and it just didn’t seem as enriching. I’d once vowed to always have as much fun as I was having at age 22, but my 27 year old self just couldn’t find anything to say to them. They were my drinking buddies, but I’ve moved on.

It can feel difficult at times to be one of the last of the singles in my “new” group of friends. They’re married or living with their significant others in houses they own. We check our work e-mail on weekends and don’t mind not going out four nights a week. And sometimes when I’m trading recipes with my girlfriends or discussing establishing a relationship with a young OBGYN who will still be delivering babies in five years, I wonder what happened to the 22 year old who just wanted to wear mini skirts and drink bar brand vodka with cranberry and dance to loud music at overcrowded bars with sweaty guys.  The girl who was in love with her disinterested best guyfriend and acted out by kissing as many fellow bottom-shelf liquor drinking boys as possible. Who would laugh at wine out of anything other than a box and thought Pasta Roni was a gourmet meal.

But as The Lawyer and I fled that tailgate on Saturday, I decided that the 22 year old is long gone and the 27 year old doesn’t mind that so much.

“Well that was quite a blast from the past,” I said. And I paused. “Let’s get back to the present as fast as we can.”

Last week’s Happy Hour came and went with no romantic fireworks to report. I had a nice time with the group and had the first of what I hope will be many Harvest Moon Pumpkin Ales made by the Blue Moon Brewing Company. It’s not quite cold enough for me to sink into a thick, dark beer like a Mackeson XXX. But soon.

It took a little while to engage The Wine Guy in conversation – we were all sitting at a long table and not meandering around a bar, so the dynamic was different. He truly seems a bit on the shy side and he had a guy friend with him to talk to.

After things warmed up a little, we started sharing stories of college and it turns out that The Wine Guy? I probably met him in college. I mentioned a bar I always went to while I was in school and he said, “Hey, I lived there. I was there every night.” So yes, in my younger, wilder, jager and vodka-hazy days, I met this man and I don’t really remember him at all.

We went through people we knew and it turns out that one of my friends dated one of his friends and my College Roommate on occasion hung out with two of his good friends who were in our major and he said, “Well, you might know my other friend, but he’s probably older.”

And he told me who his friend was and it took everything in my power not to snort and laugh and choke on my beer because not only did I know the guy (we’ll call him Center of Attention Guy), but I very briefly went out with him oh so many years ago.

Flashback to at least 1999 or 2000. I was a young college student, aged 19 or 20. Center of Attention Guy was at least three or four years older than I was – every group of college kids has a guy like Center of Attention Guy, a perennial college senior with who has forgotten his age. I ran into him one day and we ended up having lunch and by the time I’d returned home from lunch and running an errand, I had a message from Prom Date saying, “You went on a date with [Center of Attention Guy]!”

Now, I hadn’t thought our lunch was a date, but word traveled fast. Center of Attention Guy was a nice guy, but he had a slightly abrasive personality that people either loved or hated. A touch hard to handle. I was unsure as to where I stood in the spectrum of like and dislike, as I’d always viewed him as mildly annoying. Our lunch had been fun and we’d never run out of things to talk about, so I decided to wait and see where it went.

He invited me to his Christmas Party, which was the same night as another party that had demanded “dressy” attire, despite the fact that it was just a regular drunkfest that happened to be Christmas themed. I decided to go to Center of Attention Guy’s party first for a few minutes and then head over to the party I originally wanted to attend.

It is easy for me to see now that I was a bit clueless as to the fact that Center of Attention Guy really liked me and also slow to realize that I didn’t share his feelings. Dropping by for fifteen minutes before I scampered off was probably a touch heartless. In my defense, when I told him I was coming, I also told him I had a prior engagement that evening.

So there I am in a long black skirt, high-heeled boots and a soft, form-fitting turtleneck sweater. I’d decided that an all black ensemble was as dressy as I was getting to drink beer out of cans, but I had brushed sparkly eyeshadow across my lids and put big curls in my long hair.

As soon as Center of Attention Guy saw me, his eyes lit up and he said, “[Charming], I am so glad you came. You look so pretty and dressed up.” He was genuinely glad to see me and mistakenly thought the curls and sparkles and tight sweater were for him.

And I, because I was young and clueless, said, “Oh thanks; the other party I have tonight is allegedly kind of dressy.”

His shoulders dropped. “You got dressed up for another party?”

Clearly my masterful PR skills hadn’t kicked in yet, because I said, “Yeah, it is Christmas Party Season. But I’ll have a beer if you have one to spare.”

Unintentionally heartless, I swear. We had a beer and he walked me to my car and said he was so glad to see me.

I didn’t talk to him during the semester break, but a few weeks after New Year’s he asked me out on a proper date. It was one of the nicest, most well-planned dates I’ve been on. He picked a good restaurant about an hour off the beaten path; he burned a CD full of songs he knew I liked for the ride and for me to take home. (To this day, I can’t hear “Boogie Shoes” by KC and the Sunshine Band without remembering this date.) When we got to the restaurant they sat as where his grandparents always sat and he clearly knew his way around the menu, ordering us some of the best bread pudding I’ve ever had in my life for dessert. After dinner we had a great conversation as we drove back to town and watched a movie and hung out.

And then it all fizzled – I was busy and he was busy and then I felt like he was blowing me off and so when I saw him I turned up my nose and ignored him. To retaliate, he told a mutual friend or two that I was “moody and insensitive.” (It turns out that he had heard through the grapevine that I said I’d known immediately that I wasn’t attracted to him. I did say this after a few cocktails, though I’d never expected him to find out.)

In what was never one of my proudest moments, I was crashing a party at his house after the “moody and insensitive” comment. On the way to the party I’d commented that we’d had such a nice time on the date and I couldn’t figure out why he’d acted so strangely. And so the evening might have ended with me standing in his living room proclaiming that I was “NEITHER MOODY NOR INSENSITIVE” and he might – might! – have kicked everyone from the party out of his apartment because he was mad at me.

Ahem.

And then the next girl he dated it the woman he eventually married. When he introduced me to her he bungled the introduction because he didn’t know what to say – had we dated or had we not. Prom Date said he could have gone with “This is [Charming]. I tried to date her but she wouldn’t let me.”

Flashing forward seven some odd years, back to Happy Hour with The Wine Guy, I just smiled and said, “Yeah, I know that guy.”