Last week my common law wifey and I had date night. She bought me flowers and gave me a bag of circes like mustaches and a headband with a mistletoe hanging from it with which I shall trick unassuming men. I brought leftover box lunches from work and called them “dinner.”
We went to see New Year’s Eve. What business, you might ask, do two single women who within the past 4 months have gotten out of relationships with men they loved have going to see a movie about love and couples and forgiveness and second chances and reflecting nostalgically over the past year a mere 15 days before New Year’s Eve? Absolutely NONE. Needless to say, I left thinking about busting out the rosin for my bow so I could play my wrist violin and instead decided to either face a bottle of wine or my pillow. The pillow won.
Listen. I’m not holding out hope that New Year’s Eve will be filled with a heap of new beginnings and renewed hope and a man grabbing me and dipping me for a much needed smooch. I’ve had one New Year’s Eve kiss in 27 years so if I were a betting girl (and I am, because I’m currently obsessive over my bowl picks), I’d bet against another one anytime soon. [AND NO, I DO NOT NEED A REMINDER THAT NOT HAVING A NEW YEAR’S KISS IS BAD LUCK. Back off, canker sore people.]
Hell, I couldn’t even find a date to see The Avett Brothers on New Year’s Eve if I panhandled for money to buy the tickets myself and offered them up for free.
So, prior to depression being instigated by every single available actor and actress in Hollywood, I had been thinking a lot about my life and where I am with it. I had been feeling the unnecessary burden of guilt for my disinterest in spending time with people I’m not interested in. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past few months it’s this: 2 months is the window men give you to get over a relationship and then they pounce and they don’t give a damn what you say. Or if you’re busy. Or if you’re just … “busy.”
I am looking for real love. I still believe in romance and in fairy tales and in foot pops and being swept off my feet and why shouldn’t I? Better yet, why should I spent moments on dates with men I know I’m not interested in when I’d rather be spending Friday nights at home in bed with my book or painting my nails or even spending time with my parents?
So here’s to another year of doing what makes me happy.