Charming, but single

I was tagged by Doctor Scientist (and probably some other people) a few days back. Her meme was “8 things about me,” but we all know that I’m a meme changer, so we’re doing “8 things about me as explained by my weekend activities.”

1. I’m clumsy. To start the weekend off right, I fell flat on my face at Happy Hour. Ok, it wasn’t flat on my face – I actually fell up a set of stairs walking into Happy Hour. I missed a step and my heel got stuck and then there I was, on the ground while people gasped and jumped up to help me. I jumped up, brushed off my knees and straightened my skirt. Then I joined my group and had a margarita.
2. I overreact. When I tried to leave Happy Hour, I could barely walk. My toes were completely swollen and I couldn’t move three of them. In my heels I wobbled to the car and headed home, where I iced my toes and convinced myself that I’d broken all of the bones in my foot and it would either have to be chopped off or set in a cast for many weeks. I even contemplated which cast color would clash the least with my outfits.
3. I’m a sucker for kids. On Saturday, I went to my parents for laundry and sympathy. My foot was still swollen, but I agreed to go to the park and McDonald’s with my mom and my young cousins. Because when I hobbled up to my mom and my youngest cousin, who is about 18 months old, she said, “It’s [Charming]!” and he got this big grin on his face and exclaimed, “[Chhhhhaaaarming]!” And he NEVER says my name. He just calls all women “Momma” or “Naaaanny.” (As an aside, “Momma” also means, “Give me that!” or “Pick me up!” or “I want something!”) How could I not go to the park with him after he SAID MY NAME.
4. No, really, kids get me every time. My ovaries jumped as I carefully loaded my cousin into a swing and sent him flying. And his eyes opened wide and his mouth agape, as if to say, “I am so excited that I cannot make a sound! Do you see me, flying here? Would you be able to talk if you were flying?” And I know that children aren’t all cute faces and adorable squealing, but those bright eyes and tiny fingers cloud my judgment.
5. My Mom not-so-secretly wants me to have a baby. She sat in a swing with my cousin on her lap and said, “We used to come out to this park all of the time.” And then she sighed, “If I had a grandchild, I’d be out here all of the time.” And I said, “Who is financing this grandchild of yours?”
6. Neither of us is ready for me to have a child. As we sat with the three boys in McDonald’s, we realized how unaccustomed we are to children. One cousin dropped his hamburger on the floor trying to show us that it was “plain” and it should have been “regular.” My littlest cousin only wanted to eat and drink things other than the chicken nuggets I’d torn apart for him. And when I wouldn’t let him have my Diet Coke, he took his apple juice box and squeezed it, sending a stream of juice into the air. When we finally left there were piles of McNuggets and puddles of juice on the floor. And I looked at Mom and said, “Still want a grandchild?” And she said, “No, I’m good for now.”
7. I secretly believe I am a pop culture aficionado. Saturday, after my park and McDonald’s outing, I iced my still swollen foot and watched several hours of “The World Series of Pop Culture” on VH1 and convinced myself that I should put together a team and sweep the tournament next year. But the questions would have to be, like, “Catch phrases from ‘How I Met Your Mother’” and “American Idol Facts.” So, I’ve got the last five years covered. I just need teammates who know the rest.
8. I wish my life were a musical. I saw “Hairspray” on Saturday night and it confirmed that the dream I’ve had since middle school of starring in “Me: The Musical” is still alive and well. I used to choreograph dances and motions to the soundtracks of “Grease” and “Cats” and “A Chorus Line” when I was growing up. Since seeing “Hairspray” the other night, I’ve been internally serenading my life. “Goooood mooorning [Town Where I Live], every day’s like a traffic jam! Every night is sit com rerun. Every sound’s like iTunes on repeat.”

No, really, I overreact. When I woke up on Sunday my foot was completely fine. It isn’t even bruised. So I guess I didn’t need to look up which orthopedists accept my health insurance. To celebrate I had a large sugar-free skim milk vanilla iced latte. (Or two.)

What did your weekend say about you?

I don’t do lists enough, I think. (Also, don’t know that I could throw together a coherent post right now to save my life.) So here are some of my favorite summer-type things:

• There is this skirt from Old Navy that isn’t online, which annoys me, because I would order two more. But I happen to know that it is still in stores, because, well, my mom saw me wear it (because I wear it all of the time) and she said she saw it at Old Navy and my Momma speaks only the truth. It is the perfect summer skirt. It is full and flowy with a two-inch smocked waistband, which makes it extra comfortable. It is great paired with a tank top for a summer barbecue or an afternoon shopping, perfect over a swimsuit at a pool party and even kind of cute with a thin button down sweater over a camisole. I would recommend trying on a size smaller than you normally wear, because the waistband is reeeeally stretchy and the skirt is kind of full. Also, if you find it online, let me know. ‘Cause my goal for this weekend is to sit by the pool with this battery-powered fan attached to a spray bottle that I found at Target, not shop.
• Watermelon brings back memories of Fourths of July at my grandparents’ house, swimming in their pool on Sunday afternoons when the most difficult decision I had to make was if I wanted wear my Speedo practice swimsuit or my bright floral “fun” swimsuit.
• A bartender at this pub I sometimes hit after work introduced me to Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat beer. It’s been tough on me because I didn’t know how to pronounce it until I actually purchased a six pack (tonight). A few weeks ago, I made The Banker order a pint of “that beer from the bright blue tap with a fake orange wedge on it.” And this guy sitting at the bar quipped, “I love when people order beer based on how pretty the tap is.” And I had to set him straight – that I love good beer, that I love wheat beer, that I am not some ditz who is like, “Ooooooh, blue tap will match my eyes!” In the bottle, it is good, but on draft with a wedge of orange, this beer is amazing. I’ve been drinking Blue Moon as a cheaper alternative to Hoegaarden, but the slightly fruity undertones of the Leinenkugel are so perfectly refreshing that I’ve abandoned Blue Moon temporarily. Don’t take my word for it. Go to a bar, get yourself a pint, sit outside and people watch with a friend. You won’t be sorry.
• I saw an 80s cover band a few weeks back and I’ve been obsessed with “Shadows of the Night” by Pat Benatar ever since. If I were to wake up one morning with even a modicum of musical talent and became a hit singing sensation, I would start all of my shows with this song. Me, standing in a pool of light alone in the middle of the stage, belting out that a cappella opening and then the lights come up and I’m being backed by The Bangles (this is a fantasy, after all) and there is smoke and flashing lights and I’m wearing that green dress Pat Benatar wore in the “Love is a Battlefield” video. Surrender all your dreams to me tonight, people.
• A few weeks ago, in preparation for tailgating season, I bought this awesome tote-bag style cooler at Target. I wanted something big enough that I could stand a wine bottle in it – not because I bring wine to tailgates, but because I bring wine and snacks other places. So this one hold 24 cans, which is an embarrassingly large amount, even for me. But I figure this way it won’t get too crowded. And it has straps like a purse, which is good, because I can’t really fit that much beer in my purse.
• My new favorite song to use to torture my little sister is “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse. (I know, not that new. I’m not hip.) My sister hates that I sing the wrong lyrics to songs, so I make sure to do it loudly when she’s around. I was staying with her this past weekend while my parents were out of town and I kept singing, “I don’t wanna go to rehab, I said yooooo, yooooo, yooooo.” I thought she was going to deck me, which made it even more fun.
• Orbit has this new Mint Mojito flavored gum. I’m not a huge fan of the mojito, probably because I don’t think I’ve ever had a good one, but this gum is kind of fruity with a kick of mint. As an added bonus, it is bright green, which reminds me of Bubbleicious gum that I used to chew when I was a kid. Also, it is sugarfree.

I have a tendency to live only in extremes. I am at once terribly motivated or downright apathetic, bursting with joy or flattened by despair, hysterically hopeful or ridiculously cynical.

Not in a mentally unstable way, of course. But in a way that can be almost comical. One day I am convinced that I will never speak to another man again, that I will never go on another date again, that I will die alone in my bathroom when I slip on a puddle and crack my head on the side of the tub and when they finally notice I am missing and come to my apartment, my mother will be horrified that my laundry basket full of bras and panties is sitting on the couch, high heels litter the living room floor and three empty bottles of wine clutter up the kitchen counter.

Then, of course, are the days where I am so optimistic about my future that I’m mentally monogramming towels and planning perfect dates and perfect date outfits and being annoyingly chipper about the romantic road ahead.

Take Passport. (Who, it is worth noting, has not called. It has been 16 days. Not that I’m counting. Really.) Something about tall boys with dark hair sends me into a state of frenzied hopefulness that lasts until something crazy happens – like he disappears for good, or another man does something so terribly stupid that I lose faith in the entire gender or someone I know announces that she is pregnant and I start mentally counting how many eggs I have left myself.

I haven’t quite decided if optimistic or cynical is easier for me – on one hand I am somewhat of a hopeless romantic who does want to believe that there’s someone out there for me. On the other hand I have dated some of the least eligible men in the world, been lied to, emotionally misled, made to feel inferior by some and generally creeped out by others. I could choose cynicism, and who would blame me? Conversely, I could plug my fingers in my ears and ignore the mounting evidence against happily ever after for a little longer, choosing instead to default to the fairy tale stories that nurtured my dreams as a child.

I try to maintain a balance – hopeful enough to stay open to a relationship, but cynical enough not to fall for the first guy to buy me a beer and check out my rack. But I’m constantly teetering between Woe Is Me and One Day My Prince Will Come.

As for Passport, much of my hope that he is interested is gone and what remains is bolstered by various friends from the Dating Committee who assure me that the next time we’re in the same town is crucial and will determine his intentions. Their well-meaning support is enough to keep me from completely writing him off – though conventional wisdom says I probably should.

For now, he’s relegated to the mental backburner while I forge ahead, with hope in my heart and cynicism is my step.

The Bride at the wedding I went to on Saturday was perhaps the most relaxed bride ever in the history of weddings. She looked relaxed and poised – we joked that it was the two years of planning. She just had this big, happy smile on her face and calm demeanor, as if she were thinking, “I’m here, I’m wearing the white gown, there’s my husband, let’s roll.” Not to say that the other brides I’ve seen haven’t been happy. There was just something about the calmness that I found to be kind of impressive. Because I’m sure I’ll be a bawling, weepy basketcase should I ever get hitched. Both of my parents are criers. Heck, my whole family could produce a Gulf of tears if the occasion was joyous enough.

But on Saturday, there was even a moment when, after her husband said his vows, she looked at the priest pointedly and nodded, like, “I’m ready! Vows, please!”

I couldn’t help but giggle and nudge my friend, who was also trying to suppress a chuckle at The Look.

Now, I have been to a few weddings in my day and as someone who has not yet made it up the aisle, I find myself with conflicting emotions during the ceremony – joy for my friend, regret for myself and curiosity about what exactly it is that the bride and groom are gossiping about up there.

Sure, I’d like to think that they’re having some special moment of, “You’re the one I want forever and ever.” But I’m pretty sure the conversation is probably a little more irreverent. A few “you look breathtaking”s followed by some, “I am so ready for the reception” or “I think I look silly with 20 feet of tulle coming out of my head” and a dash of “Seriously, what is your cousin wearing? I know right? She looks like a drag queen.”

Not that I’m saying that weddings shouldn’t be a time of solemn reflection and love. I’m sure that, somewhere between the lighting of the unity candle and the first kiss, all of that is in there. But I am almost equally sure that a combination of nerves and excitement makes the whole thing comical to the bride and groom. You’re in this $1,000 dress with a bustle and a woman tasked to keep the train straight and lovely and you’re supposed to be all serious, but really, all you can do is giggle about how, well, the guy you met in jeans and flip flops is all buttoned up in a tuxedo.

Perhaps it is just me being shallow – I’ve been accused of that from time to time. Honestly, though I protest about weddings and needing a date and how silly I feel going, I am somewhat in awe when two people I know actually stand in front of God and everyone and profess their love and tie the knot. Because, contrary to popular opinion, I am very much a softie hopeless romantic.

And then, of course, you move to the reception. This is where I will admit that I fit the classic Single Girl Cliché of taking notes about venue, cake, band.  Stone me if you like, but I’ve already picked out what I want my wedding cake to look like and I’m merely using all current and future weddings to try different flavors and fillings – and if you think about it that way, it really makes wedding hopping, even as a Singleton with nary a date and nary a prospect, kind of fun.

When I walked into my parents’ house on Sunday, I noticed the familiar handwritten calligraphy special enough only for a wedding invitation on two envelopes that were on the kitchen table.

“Oh, those are for that wedding next month,” my mom said.

There was one for my parents and one for my brother and his finance.

“Um, did I not get invited?” I asked, seeing as my name wasn’t on any of the envelopes.

“Oh, you were. Your sister must have your invitation.”

I was confused as to why my sister had my invitation, but I accepted this as fact. Later, I was in their office printing something on the computer when I found the other wedding invitation.

It was addressed to [Charming But Single’s Younger Sister] and [Charming But Single].

That’s right. I was sharing an invitation with my younger sister. Who is in high school.

And her name was listed first.

I know that I tend to be all “woe is me,” I am single some and/or most of the time. And I really don’t believe that I am a Sad Sack Singleton most of the time. And I don’t know what Emily Post would say about this or what the etiquette is for unmarried sisters, but COME ON. I don’t even rank my own invitation anymore? I’m an adult woman with a job and her own health insurance policy and 401(k), quickly flying toward 30, and I have to share a wedding invitation with my sister who is 17?

So frustrating.

I know wedding invitations are expensive. And technically, since I don’t have a significant other, so I can be invited alone, per the laws of etiquette. I’m probably getting all huffy over nothing, but little moments of mortification such as this are enough to make me feel like a Tragic Spinster locked away in her house, toiling away over her cross-stitching and pickling carrots and beets while talking to and playing poker with her imaginary boyfriend, Mr. Fern the Plant, the only man who always lets her win at cards and who gets only the best bottled water and fertilizer on their dinner dates.