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.

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.

So, I realized that I never blogged about having my tarot cards read on New Year’s Eve, out in a famous Square of a city I love. I remembered this evening when I was rooting through my far-too-full Kathy Van Zeeland purse and pulled out a clear glass stone with a white pattern inside of it – the Tarot Card Lady gave it to me to remember my reading. I went with my girlfriends for a party and we decided to mosey on down to the Square to hang out and in the process stumbled upon the Tarot Card Lady.

Now, before people start leaving indignant comments about tarot card readings being complete bull, I will preface the retelling by saying that I did this after loads of peer pressure and with a healthy dose of skepticism. I was the last of the four of us to have a reading, mostly because my curiosity was piqued by my friends’ readings. I’ve been with friends before who had readings in this same Square – I was never willing to part with a few dollars for what I viewed as a glorified guess based on nonverbal cues.

The Tarot Card Lady sat at a small cloth covered table with two folding chairs-in-a-bag. She spread piles of well-worn tarot cards across the table and had me pick from stacks, laying them atop each other in a pattern, asking me questions along the way.

Of course I was most interested in my love life (or lack thereof). This was entirely to be expected. I was with a group of single women (one has a long-term boyfriend, but is unmarried).

Had I written this sooner, I might remember everything that she said. I only remember the high points, and I will give her that many of her comments were spot on. And I can only hope that her predictions ring true.

I do remember the first card she pulled because she said, right off the bat, that I was very smart. I smiled and nodded. She continued that I was very strong, but I was also extremely emotional and closed off.

I figured she was three for three on that one.

She said that my financial situation has improved (it has) and would continue to do so in the coming year. She pulled one card and said I’d built up a Wall to keep people out; that I’ve been hurt in the past and I don’t want to let men in because of this. (Pretty typical fare for a single 28-year-old, no?)

My skepticism permeated the reading. She kept returning to this Wall I’ve built up to protect myself from being emotionally harmed and said I’d need to figure out how to bring down that Wall in order to find happiness.

She said I’ll be a good mother and I, feeling a wee bit exposed having all of my girlfriends and hundreds of people milling around within earshot as she described my shut-in personality, asked cautiously, “So, I will find someone and have a family?”

The Tarot Card Lady looked me straight on in the eye, crooked her eyebrow and said, “Yes, have you not been paying attention?”

“Well, I know, it is just that everyone around me seems to be getting married. And I’m always a bridesmaid, never a bride,” I joked. Self deprecation is a familiar friend and my only life-long companion.

“Stop. Stop right there.”

“What?”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “If you keep saying that it will come true.” She continued that each time I said negative things I was building my Wall, which I needed to dismantle brick-by-painful-brick.

“You will find love. And you will have a good marriage.” she said.

And, yes this really happened, as she laid out the second deck of cards and talked about my love life, a newly married bride and groom entered the Square, walked past us with their photographer and stopped to pose for a portrait. The bride’s roses were bright crimson red – so bright I can see the exact hue in my mind right now.

“Do you see that?” she asked, excitedly motioning to the couple. “That is a very good sign. A very good sign indeed.”

I will find a man to love, she said. But it will not be easy. Because of the Wall I’ve surrounded myself with and because I compare every man to the one who hurt me and immediately find fault. Because I am scared.

And he’s scared too, she said. We will meet, I will know him immediately as my soulmate, but there will be much for us to overcome, as she said he will be emotional too. We will both have to work through our brick Walls together, and it will be hard.

“But, you are lucky,” she said. “Because you will find your soulmate and you will be together forever.”

As she finished I handed her some money and she picked a smooth stone from the table, where she’d laid out stones on many of the cards. She pressed the clear piece of glass in my hand and said it represented true love, beautiful and pure.

I dropped the stone in my purse and left her table with a smile.

Perhaps she is full of it. Maybe she read my cues and told me what I wanted to hear. Of course she picked up on my skepticism and could have judged me as closed off. Regardless, I left with a bit of hope for the future, a foolishly renewed faith in soulmates and silly ideas filling my head.

Later, I told my Mom about the tarot card reading, assuming her religious ways and conservative nature would make her mortified that I’d participated in such a thing.

She just smiled and asked, “Did she say WHEN you’d be meeting this soulmate of yours?”

Seriously, people, you do not want me to be your bridesmaid. I promise.

My bridesmaid dress? Was a touch tight. And I was walking out the door to have a seam or two taken out and talking to my mom and she suggested, brilliantly, that I call back Massive Chain Bridal Store to see if they had one size larger.

I told her this never would happen, that the dress was discontinued when I ordered it, that they simply didn’t have the size I’d originally wanted. But I called them anyway and wouldn’t you know they had the larger size at one store in California.

With shipping, both dresses cost less than one at full price. And after some mix ups with the shipping, the dress arrived Friday evening and I tried it on Saturday morning.

And it was too big.

Not a little bit too big. Like much too big. I wondered if wearing the too tight dress was a better option. The dress seemed much more than one size bigger. The neckline drooped low, the halter straps were five or six inches too long, the hem pooled on the floor and the back of the dress stuck out almost two inches away from my back.

Thankfully, my mom is an expert seamstress. She fixed the halter, which pulled the neckline and hemline up correctly. Then she reached under the arms and tucked each side in about two inches and sewed it down. The bodice fit perfectly and though the fabric puffed a little under the arms, she ordered me to keep my arms down during the ceremony.

Crisis averted, right?

Wrong.

A few weeks ago I rolled my ankle while grocery shopping. I slipped and caught myself and my ankle was swollen for a few days. I’d assumed I could walk off this minor injury. I iced the ankle. I elevated the ankle. I took Aleve. I wore flats.

To no avail. My ankle and calf hurt all the way from the weekend before Christmas to the present. Worried that I’d cracked a bone – I once cracked four main bones in my right foot and walked on it for days, so I know this is possible – I opted to visit a doctor.

And wouldn’t you know, it isn’t broken. It is terribly sprained, necessitating a big black cast boot. (That very thankfully comes off.)

The Bride took the news very well. I am scoping out silver ballet flats to wear instead of my silver and rhinestone strappy sandals. And thankfully the dress has a huge skirt and the boot shouldn’t be visible.

The good news: Instead of being The Single Bridesmaid or The Pudgy Bridesmaid, I will now be The Hobbling Bridesmaid, which I can handle.