How To Stay Single, Or, The New Girl Brings All The Boys To The Yard.

When I moved home, I expected that being a grown-ass woman rooming with her parents was going to be putting a HUGE dent in my dating game, were I to choose to play it again. I forgot to factor in the atmosphere of where, exactly, I was moving back to, literally and metaphorically.

The one thing I'd forgotten about starting new jobs was the fact that working in a mall is kind of like being thrown A.) Back into high school, and B.) To the sharks. Since breaking up, moving back home, and becoming employed elsewhere after years of working for the college, I'd somehow forgotten that when you're a mall-rat employee, you meet LOTS of new people. Not because you're just that cool or that popular...but because everyone wants to find out what the new girl's like.

Well, when the new girl's under the age of 30, single, and is willing to wear 5-inch heels to climb the ladder at work to hang new company posters...well, being the new girl turns some heads. The fact that she doesn't pay rent and eats home-cooked meals isn't considered a deterrent, at all. Unfortunately.

By my second shift, I already had a coworker trying to play matchmaker with me and one of his friends. I had a slew of new Facebook friend requests...all male. I literally had to make the "turn around" hand motion to get some poor young dude working across the hall to go back to his shirt folding when I clicked by on a candy bar run to Kmart before his manager yelled at him. I have gotten more store card apps in the last two weeks from eager, young, impressionable men with birth dates in the '90s than...well, more than I should feel morally ok with.

...Have I mentioned the fact that in my hometown, having all your teeth is a sign of natural beauty? While I may not be a top-model prize in Burlington or, say, Milan-- in Vegas, baby, (all) my straight teeth and 4-pack abs are pulling out all the stops.

But here's the thing-- I'm enjoying being single. After two and a half years of always having some guy around, I actually like being on my own. I mean, sure, the fact that it's getting cold at night without someone else to leech body-heat from is becoming a pain in the ass, and I really miss the company, but as I told a coworker today when she asked me how I was getting by without having sex, considering the fact that I lived with my last boyfriend and consider sex to be a daily-- if not twice or thrice daily-- duty when in relationships, I'm taking a little bit of a respite from it now, thanks. It's nice to not have to shave every other day. My body is thanking me more than it's yelling at me every time a tall, muscular dude who looks like Jason Statham's nephew walks by the storefront. For real. I'm not kidding. And my leg hair has never kept me warmer. Which is good for all those cold nights spent cuddling with my cat at home while watching Netflix and having to keep turning the volume out to drown my parents out.

So, despite all the things that nature and our 21st century society state I should have working against me right now, I've started waving at one of my sweeter admirers every time he passes by, even though I've made it clear to all that NOBODY gets a "friend" request accepted until I've met and talked with you at least twice for a decent amount of time (it helps suss out the creepers from the genuine nice people), no matter how many times you walk by or how many times I wave hello. One of my managers noticed, and asked me how I felt about jumping back into the dating pool. I pulled a face and told her my master plan.

"I figure, if I say to them, 'my last relationship involved living together, him doing the laundry, and talking about weddings; are you ready to jump right in there?' it will scare them away."

So far, the master plan is working. The only thing scarier than a woman with missing teeth in this town is a 22 year old single girl who's looking to play Mr. and Mrs. Buy A House. I mean, I didn't give an underwear model my info. And he looked like this:

What in the unholy Universe would convince me to start dating again NOW?

So who's the smart one now? This (happily single) girl.

XOXO

Back In The Saddle(bags) Again

There are a few things I really like about attending weddings: The look on the bride and groom's faces as they look at each other, the dancing at the reception afterwards, and the ruthless "time of famine and drought"-style drinking involved when the two best words in the English language get together-- Open. Bar. And then there are a few things I really hate about attending weddings: The fact I am ALWAYS over-dressed for the occasion; the feeling of desperation that settles in the air every time all the single women are rounded up onto the dance floor to make that leap for the bouquet; the fact that more and more, I'm attending the weddings of people that I've either grown up with and/or my age. First, it was my childhood best friend. Then, it was the older son of a friend of the family whom I've known since I was...I don't know...BORN. They're both a year or two older than I am, and now nuptially blissed-out, and here I am, still single, and while the motorcycle club I belong to may have a healthy number of prospects, when it comes to ones for my hypothetical wedding bed, there are NONE. Zip. Zero. Ziltch. Nada.

However, I like this show of priorities.

My last relationship involved living together, cleaning together, cooking and drinking together, exercising together (and if you know how much I hate to be seen sweating, you know how much that says about my commitment), and beginning to casually talk about weddings-- what locations we liked. What good theme colors would be. Who the bridesmaids and groomsmen would consist of. It was obviously serious when me, Miss Commitment Issues, started considering floral arrangements and the merits of hand-made wedding favors made by myself and my army of loyal (and handy!) bridesmaids. I could see myself spending the rest of my foreseeable 50-to-70 years with him, and somehow having us both miraculously die of old age and NOT of spousal homicide. It was a special union. He asked me one day if I'd still love him when he had a beer gut and had gone gray and to seed. I told him that I probably wouldn't even notice and still find him sexy, because I'd look like my mother. We laughed. We loved. And we parted.

So it was particularly bitter-sweet this past weekend, as I found myself down in Connecticut, open bar at the ready, single, condoms perennially-prepared in my cute little white clutch, and no single groomsmen to be had. People started asking after my ex. I started drinking more heavily, and eventually excused myself down the hill to the pond, so I could sit and willingly be eaten alive by the mosquitoes rather than have to utter the painful words, "Well, no one special..." one more time.

...And then, I heard the roar of a four-stroke engine.

Riding up the driveway came a refurbished custom Yamaha motorcycle, paint job pristine, chrome gleaming. It's rider was tall, dark, wearing plaid, and seemingly single. I wanted him. I wanted his bike. I was either in love, or very, very emotionally vulnerable and slightly sloshed.

So I did what every girl does when confronted with a really smokin' hot guy-- I watched him. Yes, I just sat there, and looked at him for the better part of an hour. He was pretty. It was easy. But really, I told myself, it wasn't quite enough. On the ride down to CT, I'd picked up the newest issue of Cosmopolitan, and for shits, giggles, and boredom, flipped to the last page and taken the "How Much Game Do You Have?" quiz. I got two points for professing that if I were out at a bar and saw a cute guy, I wouldn't just move into his line of sight and telepathically plead with him to come over and talk to me-- I would walk over and say hey. And you just don't lie to Cosmo. Was I really so sad and single and pathetic that I couldn't even brush the dust on my flirt off and go over and make a go of it? So I slung back my drink, adjusted my cute little summer dress, cursed being single and back in The Game, and grabbed my purse and lady-balls and walked down to where he stood next to his bike.

Now, if there is one very important life lesson I learned three years ago from having to un-Velcro Motorcycle Man of my college years from the thoughts of making me his girlfriend, it is that you DO NOT touch even a man's kickstand without asking his permission first. And thanks to the Northern Deathriders, I've acquired quite a comprehensive knowledge about motorcycles in the last few months. So I sauntered down to him, lightly touched his upper arm to get his attention (and for the hell of being able to touch him), and said, "Excuse me, but what model Yamaha is this?"

He turned around. He smiled. He told me. I told him about my friend's Yamaha. He asked if I was into bikes. I laughed and told him about my old lady status. "I'm more of a 'fetch beer, remind them to flip the burgers, and admire the bikes,' kinda girl," I told him. "Are you one of those girls who will polish her boyfriend's bike?" his friend asked me, leaning in. "No. But I'll tell him when it needs to be done."

Their eyes lit up in a way that told me that the only wedding bells that day had not just been earlier at the church. For the next 20 minutes, we talked bikes, business, and New York City, where he lived. It was like God had delivered me my perfect made-to-order man. The only thing missing to make it more obvious would have been a silver platter, hand-engraved. But after years in the dating trenches, I knew when to cut things off before the stink of desperation cut in and I went from being The Cute Girl Who Knows Her Shit to being The Crazy Girl Who Won't Go Away. Proud of myself for having the guts to approach him, and still buzzing from the intoxicating mix of wine, cute guy, and bike exhaust, I thanked him for talking bikes, shook his hand, and excused myself. I may have been out of the game for awhile, but this cat still knows when to play hard-to-get.

Later that night, he came back and found me before he left. I was sitting at a table, taking a break from the dance floor, when I saw him approaching me from the corner of my eye. I pretended not to notice him until he was right next to me, leaning over my chair. He offered his hand again, saying he was leaving, but thanking me for coming over and talking to him earlier. I took it, shook it, and told him the pleasure was mine, and that anytime he wanted to talk bikes, I was game. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name. But I knew that I felt good about myself, and that this old-hand Single Girl still had some life-- and some game-- in her yet. And who needs an engagement ring or kids when you can flirt with all the hot young bikers with good manners in the world? Exactly.

22. College-educated. Self-employed entrepreneur. Confident. Sarcastic. Single. Fabulous.

XOXO

Figuring It All Out

At 22, I thought that my big Quarterlife-Crisis change would be starting to navigate the big, scary Real World, B.S in hand. Instead, the economy solved that issues for me by making me generally unemployable (who ever got a Liberal Arts degree, anyway?) and only a few months freshly out of college, my big life change ended up being a drastic switch from The Single Life to The Coupled Life. Between the two of us, self-imposed loners with a sarcastic, highbrow bend and a serious commitment to Netflix and alienating ourselves from decent society, we managed to take two fairly boring lives, combine them, and make one chock-full-o'-nuts life together. Hence why I have been fairly MIA for the last few months. Hence why I now have friends IRL. Hence why tonight, while he's gone from the nest and I am too mindlessly bored to continue watching yet another Katherine Heigl movie, I've decided to let you know that I remain alive, just a little bit less single than I used to be, and a little bit more grown-up.

All kidding aside, what have I learned about relationships in the past few months cannot be neatly summed up in a single blog post, or in any number of blog posts, for that matter. (Believe me-- I have tried. And tried and tried and tried. My Drafts box is both imposing and impressive now.) Our relationship, like most others, is too complex and nuanced to break it down into categories and subcategories: What I Think About Him, What He Thinks Of Me, When An Acceptable Amount Of Time Is In Which To Say "I Love You," And Who Said It First (neither of those actually happened to be good societal standard norms, but fuck it), How We Met Each Other's Families, The Fact That All My Friends For Once Agree I Have Met A Suitable Man And Would Probably Take Him Over Me Were We To Split, Our First Mini-Getaways As A Couple And How To Survive A Vacation With Your Partner When Your Forget Your Blowdryer, What To Say When You're Caught Red-Handed, How To Breathe And Just Let Shit Roll Off Your Back, What Happens When The Past Sometimes Doesn't Stay In The Past, How Cooking For Two Requires More Math Than You're Bound To Remember From High School Calc Than Cooking For One Does, and The Proper Way To Wake A Snoring, Blanket-Stealing Man Up.

Instead, I've gone back to my pre-schooling basics to make this relationship work where others before have failed. We share things: My car. His house. The grocery list. A full-size bed (built for cuddling when you're respectively 5'3 and 6'3,) and one blanket-- well, he has a tendency to get all Oldest Child about it and steal it, so I've resorted to His and Hers duvets. Colds-- he just got over one; kindly has passed it onto me. We compromise: He, a full-bore Mac Man, has learned to navigate around my PC. I've given up eating quite as much red meat as I used to to better suit his vegetarian diet and our shared meals. He's getting used to having to repeat questions. I'm slowly getting used to actually listening to the answers. The other day, I caught him kiss my cat on the head, not sneer and verbally demean him per usual. It touched me in a very special place. (No, not that special place.) Basically, as I am dying to tell all of my ex-professors, the things I learned in hallowed campus classrooms were NOT, in fact, the lessons that have helped me survive life after college; it was the lessons my parents taught me pre-K and everything else I picked up from dating in dorms, renting as a roommate, and romancing the reluctant and recalcitrant rascals of my previous Single Life that have got me where I am today: Happy, well-adjusted, cohabitating, and in love.

...And yes, still funemployed. But writing pro bono for a few publications, and one newly-created nationally-syndicated women's magazine! (I guess some of those publishing and entrepreneurship classes did come in useful, after all.)

Long story short, I spent 4 years of my life and nearly a cool $100K to learn that to make it in life, you have to be funny enough to ensnare a man's attention, quirky enough to keep it, well-versed enough in the kitchen to feed him once you've got him, persevering enough to play hausfrau for him, relaxed enough to drink beers with his buddies, feminine enough to keep his blood boiling even after a few months in, well-read enough to read the labels on his shirts before laundering them, and educated enough from your previous Single Life to be able to introduce him to new things, places, and experiences.

He, in return, has got to love you enough to find all of this amusing and endearing.

In other words, stay in school, because that's where all the good men are.

XOXO

Attack Of The Pod People.

My childhood best friend is getting married shortly (a June wedding; classic, of course). Despite the fact that we've been largely out of touch for the past few years, my family and I were still invited. My dad bowed out-- weddings aren't exactly his thing-- but my S.O gamely agreed to be my date, anyhow. What startled me the most about these upcoming nuptials wasn't the fact that I actually have a date to a wedding; it wasn't that my childhood best friend, one year older than I, was getting married; it was, rather, the fact that I remember sneaking downstairs for midnight snacks with her in 5th grade, laying on the carpet on our backs in front of the drink cart in my parent's dining room, and planning out her wedding. That's when it hit me as I read her wedding invitation and RSVP card--

We're not playing little-girl games anymore.

And it shows. Lately, I've been feeling a sort of shift in myself and my desires in relationships that I thought was imperceptible to everyone but myself, until in the eyes of my first college roommate, I finally saw reflected a very different vision than the college freshman who used to slink back into our cramped dorm room ashamedly at 2 AM from her forays in the RA’s room, sex hair rampant. I was poised. I was graduating. I was in a functional, happy, mature relationship that was defined by the both of us in accordance of what we wanted, what we needed, and what we were looking for from each other. I was—Jesus Christ—in love. What shocked me most was when she commented after I told her that my current relationship was making me realize how much the past, less-serious relationships I had been in irked me in their undefined, let's-just-see-where-this-takes-us-before-one-or-both-of-us-abruptly-jump-ship, laissez-faire attitudes, "I've seen how you've struggled and been hurt, even when you said you didn't want anything that was serious, because I knew you'd figure it out for yourself, one day."

Me? Actually be one of those girls her likes her relationships done defined with a side of seriousness, going in a positive, delineated fashion? Mais, non!

Mais, oui! As we stood on the corner of Church Street and Main last night, my S.O referred to me in passing to his friend as "my girlfriend." And that's when I realized-- I haven't had a guy call me his "girlfriend" since I was a junior in high school, and that's also the same guy who ended up proposing to me. Since then, I've been "my friend," "the girl I'm seeing," "the girl I'm sleeping with," or just plain "Carissa," but never the "girlfriend." Until now, when I've met the family and keep my pear-and-sugar exfoliating scrub in his shower and have brought him back to my hometown. It makes me wonder if all of this-- the meeting of the families, the mature partnership and cohabitation, the giving of solid, concrete titles, the endeavoring to actually, I don't know, BE TOGETHER-- was what was missing in the rest of my relationships, and thus, why they all ended up failing. While watching an episode of SATC yesterday, it brought up the question: If men and women are like cabs, cruising around with our lights off while we pick up and discard all sorts of people until we finally decide the time is right-- post-college, post-nearly a decade of dating debacles, post-living abroad, and now, pre-friend-in-the-same-age-group's weddings-- are our lights now suddenly on?

While pop culture knowledge may say that I should now be desperately plotting how to wrangle a man into my marriage bed now that my friends are starting to say their "I do"s, I say "I don't"; I may not be on the fast-track to engagement or marriage (the only thing I like about engagements is the ring, because I adore diamonds, and the only reason I'd really like to get married is to put my Star Wars-themed wedding plans into action; both of which don't quite seem like good enough reasons to do either), but there are some disturbing signs pointing to the fact that I may, quite possibly, be one of those "pod people" types who is actually happy inside of her relationship, just the way it is. You know, those couples who are always together, just happen to end up wearing matching outfits, and constantly use the word "we" all the time? You know, pod people. "We" people. "'We' went here," "'We' did that," people. But then I rolled over this morning, and suddenly realized the novel "Chasing Harry Winston" by Lauren Weisberger was on top of my reading pile, while "The Bridesmaids" was on my Movies-To-See List, and my mother and I had recently debated the choice of my childhood best friend having her reception at The Legion and the S.O and I had ended up in front of the engagement display, comparing tastes, while on a trip to Periwinkles to find him a watch. I started getting suspicious. Maybe I was getting antsy. Meanwhile, in the formulation and brainstorming process of writing this post and getting into the "wedding" frame of mind, I've been trolling countless big-name jeweler sites, ring-watching. (If you don't think it's not a competitive sport for women, guess again.) And until I found this ring on Harry Winston's site, which isn't even an engagement ring, I was rather lackadaisical about the whole thing. Still no real drive to hear wedding bells. Still entirely loathe to put together a guest list (my own personal nightmare). And then, I saw the ring. Imagined what it could look like with a diamond crowning it, instead of a sapphire. Thought about how I could rope my father, a jeweler, into designing and making something similar. And I suddenly got it. The itch. The diamond fever. I realized that every relationship before now was wrong because we weren't on the same page. They were all in the casual lane while secretly, unbeknownst to even myself, I was in the "Skyscraper ring on my left ring finger" lane. I started wondering where I could find decent flower arrangements and a hot pink Gerber daisy bouquet. Then, I caught myself. I almost, unknowingly, without being on guard, let myself slip into the "we" people zone again. The diamond almost got me. While I may be the sort of girl who has rediscovered that she cherishes being called "the girlfriend," I'm still not the sort of girl who thinks picking place settings and napkin fabrics out is a good use of my time, when I could be, I don't know, catching up on all the new episodes of Sons of Anarchy or creating a new, catchy acronym for inappropriate relationships (P.I.W.B: Professor I Would Bang, anyone?). So, while I may be discovering, through my relationships, through my friends, and through myself, what sort of pod person I really am, I'm also still not overly tuned into my biological clock or life plan. It was all the ring. The fucking ring. Weddings. They're still on my "highly skeptical; treat as you would a leper patient" list.

XOXO

Live, Single Girls!

After my third friend in a row was recently dumped by her long-time partner in lovin' crime, it started to put my ladies in the Burlington area in a bit of a panic. First, TGIS had gone MIA, then, one friend's 9+ month f-buddy called it quits on her while citing the need to emotionally distance himself before moving to Beantown, and to top it all off, one of the longest-running couples I knew decided it was time to part ways, effectively rendering everyone's general mood as if it were the end of Scrub's era again. At the beginning of the winter, everyone was shacking up. Now as the season is almost turning to summer, it seems as if they’re all shedding us ladies like winter coats and beards. It’s bizarre, but it’s biological.

When I came home a few weeks ago late at night/early that morning from a successful date #2, I realized then that I haven't been without at LEAST the prospect of a man for the last two years. I went from a summer fling to a feel-it-out situation, to breaking the feel-it-out situation when I slept with someone else who I then started an on-again, off-again relationship with for about a year, then finally ended up facing the music, the relationship's downfalls, and the lack of my desires being unfulfilled when I met and started hanging out with someone else, and just kept going from there. So much for being a "Single Girl." But it's not my fault-- there are men EVERYWHERE. The key to finding them, it seems, is to apparently not be looking for them.

While I may have achieved success (more or less,) in the really odd way of just continuing to date via the ex's friend pool-- not by choice; Vermont is just that small-- the lesson that I've learned here is that "the end" does not really start the sentence "the end of the rest of your romantic life." When I finally reached the conclusion on my own thanks to lack of any communication or response from him that my relationship with TGIS had run its course, I cheered myself up by doing two things-- remembering that he himself had been a random stranger I'd met while intoxicated at a party (true life,) and didn't remember until he popped up out of the blue and started talking to me on Facebook, ergo, that you NEVER know who'll you'll meet or click with, and secondly, taking my bed back by sleeping in the direct middle of it so it didn't feel quite so big and empty and pathetic and lonely anymore. (Wait, are we talking about me or my bed, now? Hmm.) Partially thanks to that, and partially thanks to probably my Zoloft prescription, it was the least painful break-up I've ever had, even though the relationship in itself was probably the most involved and serious to date.

And then I was asked out again out of the blue. I wasn't expecting it. It wasn't like I was planning on being a sex-kitten man-magnet right out of the emotional gate again. I actually intended to take some time off, be single, and re-evaluate myself and my life. But instead, I'm content to just feel things out, meet new people, and take things slow for now. Nothing, after all, is written in stone. Other, of course, than monuments, historical road signs, and castle dedications.

The other night, as the beau and I picked up the ingredients to make a late Sunday night dinner dressed in a motley assortment of "wow, laundry day needs to come soon" clothing, I looked across the self-check-out station at another young couple. He was in Timbz and sweats; she in jeggings, flip-flops, and an off-the-shoulder t-shirt that could have been identical to mine. She and I were bagging what was obviously going to be dinner for the night as the guys swiped it across the scanners, and suddenly, it hit me-- this isn't that weird; this is what people my age do. We date. We get in and out of relationships. We find out what we're looking for in a partner, and we adjust our thinking accordingly. So, while I may eternally feel like that Single Girl, what I really am is a Normal Girl, one who goes on dates, gets into relationships, still deals with her ex's drama, and more than anything else, is actively and eternally curious about learning what the words "love" and "relationship" really mean.

XOXO

---

This is also a massive apology for the lack of posts in the past month-ish. Between my thesis, finals, Senior Week, graduation, family, my new relationship, finding a new apartment, and traveling, I've been more than a little tied up. However, I HAVE still been taking notes and writing, so be prepared for a slew of posts flooding your RSS feed. Starting...now. Thanks for all your continued support and kinds words in my Comments box; I can't tell you how appreciated they were and how much they meant to me!

Bringing "Baby" Out Of The Corner.

A few weeks ago, I was surprised. It wasn't a good surprise, though it wasn't a bad surprise, either. It was the kind of surprise that takes a minute to sink in and then makes you decide how you feel about it. It was the kind of surprise that makes you reconsider if you're a right-to-life supporter, or a pro-choice defendant. Let's be clear, here: I am in a monogamous relationship. We have sex. I take birth control. I get my period religiously on the afternoon of the second day of the green pills, between the hours of 2 and 6 PM, always. But occasionally, a girl takes antibiotics or accidentally misses a day of the population control pills and finds herself sitting on the toilet, counting the days back on her fingers, wondering when, WHEN is she supposed to start worrying that there's something more to the bloat than water-weight? In short, could she be...gulp...knocked up?

Now, I am not the most child-friendly person in the world. As an only child, I never had to deal with younger siblings, so I always felt awkward growing up when someone handed me their baby brother to hold while they wrestled him into his socks and shoes. Of course I babysat in my teens-- but only for children over the age of 7; it was a strict stipulation. In the beginning of my twenties, I found myself nannying for a family with three children, ages 1, 6, and 9. Primarily, I spent the most time with the baby while the two older kids were at school, and I promptly found myself falling in love with Patrick and his Tonka Trucks. The Diaper Genie and I bonded. I started carrying around the necessities of life in my purse. I strapped a baby seat into the back of my Civic. At the local rec center, I earned the nickname the "Sexy Nanny" after an unfortunate incident involving a string bikini and teaching Patrick to swim (flailing baby limbs were involved). I got used to fending off questions if the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pointy-eared little boy was mine. I decided, for the time being, that I was ok with babies-- as long as they were Patrick. (He was the man in my life.) But once it becomes a possibility that you might have found yourself incubating one of your own, you have to start asking yourself the hard questions: Could I do this? Would I want to do this?

As I pondered these thoughts, something strange occurred to me: I am no longer a teenager. I successfully made it out of the danger zone of having the social stigma of "teen mother" attached to me. I'd give birth at 22, a perfectly acceptable age to procreate. I'd have graduated college. I wouldn't even be showing by the time I accepted my diploma. I'd have nine months to decide what I was doing, where I was living, and establish a steady job (or more likely, jobS). I could still attend grad school, could still travel, could still move from Burlington to New York or Boston or Virginia or god knows where. I could still do all these things I wanted to do with my life-- it might just take a little more time, but I could do them. IF I wanted to.

I found myself touching my belly at random moments, as if I could learn about my state of affairs through touch osmosis. I got properly freaked out when TGIS curled around me one morning and started rubbing my stomach, then looked up at me and, out of the blue, said "Babies?" in a voice that sounded suspiciously similar to some kind of abstract hope. I hadn't told him; hadn't said a word, not even to my closest girl friends yet, but at that simple question, told him he better pray not, all while wondering if by some bizarre physiological design, he knew when he had hit the winning round of insemination and was able to commune with the budding baby. I excused myself to the bathroom and stared down my pelvic region for a good 10 minutes, looking for some kind of sign. The only one I got was that I needed to start going to the gym again.

Though I ended up getting my period a few days later (the operative part of that word being "late"), it still changed something in me to have seriously thought about the repercussions that getting pregnant at this point in my life could have. Instead of being cut-and-dry, I now was finding myself with options, which in turn opened the possibility if I were to actually want a baby at some point in time up to me. It wasn't anything I'd really ever considered before, other than a few other times when having an abortion was the only option I had even thought of. But now, that wasn't my only option. I had new ones opening up to me. And that was the first time in a long time that I realized that I was, in fact, growing up. And I found that that idea was more scary to me than the thought of another life-form growing inside of me.

XOXO

P.S-- I cannot stake claims on the impossibly adorable little bundle of joy at the top of the post. That is Steve Ward of VH1's "Tough Love" fame's nephew, and I think he is THE MOST unFUCKINGbelievably adorable child I have EVER seen. I have a massive baby-crush on him, and if I could get a promise that a child of mine would come out looking like this, I’d have one. Tomorrow. Before 8 AM. ASAP. This child makes my biological clock HAMMER. Ughghjjaksfhsadfkhkjsabdfkhasdfkkasjdfbasfdkj. I’m in LOVE.

When Women Re-Enter The Cave

One of my more endearing quirks is the fact that I'm one of those girls who always goes over to a guy's place, rather than having him come to me. A great way for my guys to figure out how I feel about them is if I invite them over or not: If I ask you to come over, I'm not stressing about you seeing where or how I live. In other words, we're great buddies. I'm comfortable around you. You can totally see where I sleep. But if I drag my feet about having you over more than George Clooney drags his feet about getting married; oophf, I may like you enough to not want you to see my dirty dishes, what science experiments my roommate and I are growing in our fridge, and be worried about you finding out how many pairs of shoes I really do own. (Ummm...it's a lot.)

The last man I had invited into my home slept in my bed, broke some bedsprings (yeahhh...let's not talk about that...) ate my food, broke my ottoman, and left his proverbial scent over everything I owned. I saw traces of him everywhere I looked, in my own things. It took a long time after the break up for me to be able to sit in my own apartment again without feeling like shit. It also took me a long time to get ready to invite another of my guys into my living space. So, in the meantime, I went out to their places a lot.

Women's mags would have a field day berating me for this (all that yadda on going into a space where he's in power, etc., etc.,), but there's something that I really love about being in Man Space. I like talking to the roommates, and admiring the attempts at interior decorating. I like drinking beer that isn't mine, and reading books I don't have on my own bookshelf before he wakes up in the morning. And I really, really like waking up in an apartment that isn't mine. A joke that really isn't a joke that I recently told a friend is that the shittiest part of a break-up is the fact that you can't retreat to someone else's territory when yours is hostile or boring. There are some nights you just want to not be home, or some ungodly early mornings that your landlord wants to come in to do some reconstruction work. Those are the sort of nights that it'd be nice to have enough money for a hotel, but, in failing that, would like to have the option of using the person you're sleeping with's bed instead. So, figure, spending the night at a guy's house is like going to a 2-star hotel with a prostitute. But in a more romantic, less illegal way.

I found this article from Glamour online today, and it was like it encapsulated everything that I love about going to my guy friend's places. While she may have liked the fact that when a dude is home, she knows where he is and with who, I like the whole "gather around the man cave" concept for another reason. One of my favorite parts about not staying home is being able to go over where a dude is hibernating at home and hang out with his buddies. At home, it's me, it's Alli, and it's His Little Shit Nicolai la Citta, who, having NOT been neutered and in retaining both of his furry balls, is probably the most testosterone-ridden thing we see around regularly. And as should probably be splashed across the headlines as it is so NOT breaking news in any sense, it's pretty obvious that I'm a really big Guy's Girl. I drink beer. I have a football team. I can out-quote you on Star Wars. I can identify how many cylinders a car has by sound. I sleep between to a collector's edition Batman comic book and a life-size cut-out of the Joker. I do pretty well for myself with guys, and I really love getting to know their friends.

But unlike the author, I like the man caves as much as the men inside of them, and obviously find it a huge turn-on when a guy has so thoughtfully "pimped out his man cave." It shows that appearances are just as important to him as they are to me and that his cleanliness is close to him being godliness. I was actually with a guy for awhile who had the most spectacularly neat room I've ever seen other than my own, and thought that this was the norm until I met one of his longtime girl friends who promptly spilled the beans that that was NOT true, and it appeared as though he'd been cleaning before I came over. I do the same thing. I was charmed. She thought it was hilarious.

One apartment full of men I know is decorated with the findings of one roommate's antiquing and flea-market finds. (Having side tables gets you far with me.) Another house of 4 guys has a cleaner bathroom than we do at Heaven on Union, and HANDTOWELS! One of my female friends lives with two of my guy friends, and together, they stock and share a refrigerator I am truly envious of that consists mainly of beer, expensive foreign cheeses, and meats. I clearly have such awesome guys in my life. Why would a girl NOT want to spend time in man caves like these?

Oh, right-- that whole asking to come over thing always sucks.

XOXO

Apartment In The City

The Bat Cave, named due to the $1 curtains.

Also, see if you can spot the stolen items in our living room.

Hint: Road crews hate us.

The ceiling was painted years ago by a previous tenant who was an Art student at UVM.

So I guess they are good for something.

The long hall.

Our shared walk-in closet.

My closet, also known as "The Spoils of Italy."

Our back porch, complete with our neighbor's cat, Otis.

XOXO

20-Somethings

This past Thursday was my 21st birthday. It goes without saying that I had a great time-- what I remember of it, anyway. But it was landmark in more than the fact that I am now able to walk into a U.S liquor store without being run out; it showed me how far I've come in the past year and more.

21 Things I Managed to Accomplish by 21:

1.) Found, applied for, negotiated, and moved into my first "big girl" off-campus apartment.

2.) Come to terms with love and loss. Who I was in the fall changed radically with the death of someone I loved. Though the loss of a life shouldn't be taken lightly or spun in any light other than tragic, it did make me mature more quickly than I would have ever thought possible. Because of this, I've been able to maintain a much more realistic outlook on the loss of friendships, lovers, and situations than I ever was able to before. And I also realized the benefits to taking time out of every day to quietly remember someone.

3.) Spending a semester in Italy did more than expand my thinking on the world and love of clothing and shoes; it also made me more intimately aware of who I am, what I am capable of, and what I believe in and will stand for. This may have made me seem more demanding, opinionated, or quick-tempered, but it's become apparent that if people can't see past those characteristics to the driving force behind them-- can't recognize what I need; aren't willing to see things from both sides; get equally frustrated or mad instead of trying to come to a conclusion that suits both parties-- then they don't either know me or want to know me enough to know what's best for me.

4.) My mother looked at me the other day and in a tone of relief that was a little disconcerting, exclaimed, "You've finally grown into such a pretty young woman." Ok, ok, I'll be the one to say it-- I have not always been the most attractive specimen of womanhood. Most of it was elective. But I was also damn awkward for a long time. I hit 20, and BAM! I was someone new. My body shape changed. My face got leaner and more mature. My hair finally grew into acceptable submission. And this morning, when I stopped to talk to the painters as I left my apartment, I realized through their shyness that I've become to sort of girl who makes men nervous. Looks are not everything, but they mean more to the person they belong to than most of us are willing to admit to.

5.) Bought my first big-name designer item-- the vintage Louie messenger bag.

6.) Walked into a liquor store in the U.S, and belonged there.

7.) Spent the night on an Italian beach watching a meteor shower.

8.) Climbed an active volcano.

9.) Traveled extensively to places I have never been by myself, never got lost, never panicked, and never backed down from the challenges.

10.) Cried in public for the first time in my life since I was a toddler.

11.) From being a juvenile delinquent in high school, became a damn good and Dean's List college student who is involved on and off campus. (Key point: Finding out how to separate your professional and social lives.)

12.) Learned 2 other languages.

13.) Found, negotiated, bought, and learned how to drive a stick-shift.

14.) Became a runner. There will be no marathons in my life, but I'm a runner all the same.

15.) Recognized the fact that I am also an emotional runner.

16.) Learned when to say "yes," learned when to say "whatever you want," learned when to say "I'm sorry," learned how to say "I don't think so," learned how to say "Absolutely not!" and what situations to apply them all to.

17.) Though proposed to twice, was wise enough to say "no" both times.

18.) Rode one of the painted cows on Church Street. It goes without being said that this happened the night of my 21st birthday. Yes, there is photographic evidence. It will come a bit later.

19.) Among other things while nannying, taught a baby how to say "elephant," "lion," and "bear;" how to fist-bump, and how to swim. In doing so, helped shape a young life for two years.

20.) Can now pair food and wine and make some kick-ass authentic Italian meals.

21.) Started this blog. It may not be what defines me, but it's become a major part of my life, and for being a part of it, I thank all of you.

22 Things I Want To Accomplish by 22:

1.) Turn this blog into a website with advertisements from local businesses. The good news is, I have friends to build websites for a living and for fun. The bad news is, once this gets accomplished, I have a sneaking suspicion I'm going to have to start referring to myself as an "entrepreneur." And I can't spell that word, let alone live up to it.

2.) Have the sort of relationship that I want-- not the one that someone else wants.

3.) Publish something in Glamour, Cosmopolitan, ELLE; writing publications of note like the New Yorker, The Atlantic, etc.; or a well-heeled website.

4.) Get a "real job" I don't despise, and make enough to start saving for the first time in my life instead of living hand-to-mouth.

5.) Start saving for the first time in my life. Because come college graduation, it's not just me anymore-- it's me AND my horse I'm providing for. (If you don't understand the bond between women and horses, you can substitute the word "baby" for horse, and get the gist.)

6.) Compete again. I was a competitive rider from the age of 9, but with the start of college, showing fell by the way-side. I'm relaxed enough now that it's not about the ribbons and high scores anymore-- it's about seeing the changes and how far you've come as a team with your horse. (She used to try to kill me. Now she cuddles. I'd say that's an accomplishment better than any blue ribbon right there.)

7.) Pass my GREs, and start grad school.

8.) Give a hitch-hiker a ride.

9.) Get a dog again.

10.) See the desert.

11.) Get back to Disney World and let my inner child run rampant again.

12.) Read all of Edward Abbey's novels.

13.) Model for a piece of artwork. I came close for doing it for cash in Italy, and it looks like I may be in the same pose-ition (hahaha, bad puns, I can't resist them!) again this summer. My mom did it when she was in college, and I think there's something amazing about being able to look back at a portrait of you later in life and say, "That was me. That was what I looked like. Those are the same moles, the same toes, the same scars, the same birthmark. And that's art."

14.) Ride a motorcycle.

15.) Take a bar-tending class. I love talking to people, and I love alcohol, so why not combine two loves and make some money while doing it?

16.) Birthday sex. Possibly the one day out of a year when you can ask for whatever you want and make someone feel obligated to do it. Though you shouldn't take advantage of this situation...everyone does.

17.) Not over-draw my checking account ONCE.

18.) Become more comfortable with the more traditional aspects of dating. I feel like a freak of nature having to admit this, but I really feel as if my love life would improve if I did not turn paying the bill into a full-on brawl.

19.) Start having Boy's Nights like I already have Girl's Nights. Because I love my boys just as much, if not sometimes more, than I love my ladies, and it's time to start showing them that appreciation.

20.) Start painting and sketching again.

21.) Find a charity I really believe in and donate to them.

22.) Continue doing things that stretch my comfort level and make me grow and expand.

XOXO

"Something More," Said The Clock.

I've been spending a lot of time lately thinking about what makes a perfectly functional and happy person decide to throw their lot in with another person and want to be in a relationship. Not being a big fan of relationships or the institution of commitment myself, I was recently horrified to hear the first audible "tick" of what I previously thought was my busted biological clock. Maybe it's the fact that a close friend with whom I played wing-woman for has now reached past the 1 year anniversary with said boyfriend I did the winging maneuvers for and are vacationing and cohabitating together, or the fact that I'm watching people I grew up with planning for their long-term serious relationships, weddings, and even babies, or maybe it's just the fact that I have done the "I'm so not serious about you I'm going to do everything to prove to you I think this is a lark and self-sabotage this whole state of affairs" thing for the past 5 years, and now with a landmark birthday approaching I'm realizing I should be acting as old as I'm getting and I'm ready to give it a rest for awhile. Whatever the reason, the ending thought remains the same: Scary.

I think as graduates of first grade, we can all agree on the fact that 1 + 1= 2. So why, then, do proponents of love and the Hallmark company seem so hell-bent on convincing us that two people in a relationship are one entity?

I've found myself wondering where my extremely colorful past fits in with my new desires. What about all of a woman's past relationships? Are they now halves? What happens after the union, no matter what sort it was, how serious or how tenuous it was, is gone? How can anyone be expected to deal with so much continuous disappointment? Are we trying to be martyrs, or can we just not get out of our own way? As long as there are women, there will always be women who fall for the wrong guy. Women with a predilection for the Bad Boys. Women who have convinced themselves that if she just loses that last 5 pounds, if she never says "no", if she can change her inner desires to be less demanding and more like him, he will somehow realize that she is perfect, just perfect, for him. These are also the same women who often end up finding just the sort of man who is not perfect for them. (Guilty as charged.) Usually, if anything, I'm over-confident. Most of the time, I am pretty sure I could rule the world single-handed if all the nation's leaders suddenly all came down with a deadly infectious disease at a U.N meeting and keeled over. But for some reason, when it comes to men, all bets are off. Maybe it's because women really have no idea, past a good steak and a blowjob, what men really want. Maybe, if they talked about it, like women have a tendency to do (myself not included here, as I would usually rather extract my own wisdom teeth sans Percocet than talk about my feelings), we could all be a lot more clear and a lot less confused and apt to spend an inordinate amount of time and energy on someone, just to realize that they are never going to change. At least, not for us.

Which brings us to why men like some women and not others. Frankly, I cannot understand what anyone sees in me. And I am not being self-depreciating here. At times, I want a divorce from myself. I have altogether too many flaws and personality quirks to be consider either easy to live with, enjoyable, or sane. When I see a guy look at me like he adores me, I want to shake him and ask, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? DO YOU ENJOY BEING RUN RAGGED? BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT I DO!" Because no matter how crazy women can get at men and relationships and love and how delusional we can make ourselves, there is that-- that ONE MOMENT-- where you watch him watching you, and you are hit over the head with it like a two-by-four that he likes you. Not, "I think you're entertaining" likes you. Not, "I'm imagining you naked right now" likes you. But that often sought-after and rarely found moment where the guard goes completely down behind his eyes and you catch that look and instead of what most men would assume, you do not go "There is the answer to all my dreams and desires!" but instead think, "OH. SHIT. That's real."

While I may make a good friend and a fun time, I really cannot see what would make me captivating to a member of the opposite sex. Maybe this is a great example of why love and infatuation are random and women need to stop comparing themselves to other women and asking "Why her, and not me?" Maybe there is no reason. There are other people out there, other women and other men, who are not going to demand a single thing from you, but in the long run, are they really the sort of person you want to be with? Shouldn't you want to be with someone who wants you to be the best you possible? I'm apt to believe this, especially when faced the with realization that despite all my bullshit, there are people out there with a soft-spot for me a mile wide. That would be the only explanation. But the problem with a connection like that with someone else is despite all of your warning signs and pros and cons lists, you're loathe to let them go. It's not, believe me, that you are so unlovable that you will never find someone else who will look at you that way again or make you feel the same. It's just that nothing will ever be exactly like that connection, and that connection may just be the one that you need, questions, hard work, disappointment, and all.

I'm getting old enough to realize that despite my parent's fairy tale, love is not easy. Loving someone, in fact, is one of the hardest things in the world, because loving who they really are, and not who you'd like them to be, requires a nearly Gandhi sense of acceptance. And there are times-- when the trash is spewing forth from the garbage can because it hasn't been taken out in over two weeks, when he forgets meeting with you for the second time in a week, when their tongue is in someone else's mouth-- that love and acceptance seem damn near impossible. And that's the hardest part-- keeping that love despite all of someone's faults. I'm tempted to say that we fall for who we do because they're difficult. It's said that nothing worth having is even gotten easily, and I think we'd become more quickly bored if it were so easy and simple. And when we get bored is when we hop onto the next slowly passing train, or person.

"A human's desire to mate, the pair up, to be part of a couple, will never change. But the way we go about it, how badly we need it, what we are willing to sacrifice for it, most definitely does" (Liz Tuccillo, intro to her novel, "How To Be Single"). That's the problem: what two people want is rarely the same thing. How people manage to "work it out" is beyond me. I used to be a status-quo girl. Most days, I still am. I'm content to share a bed, share some time, share a few meals, and otherwise, be on my own. I don't demand much, time- and commitment-wise. A friend of mine who just got out of a three-year relationship asked me how I do it, how I maintain my life when trying to juggle it with someone else's. The real answer to this, and the answer that is not quite the most flattering in the world in regards to the whole "selflessness" item, is that even when I'm in a relationship, my mentality is still that of a Single Girl. I can't separate the Independent Me from the Someone's Girl Me. I've lived far too much of my life being my own girl that I don't think I can, or would, ever want to lose that part of me.

I'll admit, some of it may also be the fact that I do not have a stellar retention rate, either for keeping relationships, keeping an interest in one man, or actually doing things By The Book: dating, commitment, relationship, a satisfactory amount of time, clean break-up. I tend to operate outside of the lines of public dating decency. That's just the way my stripes run. I am tempted to say, "It's not long long you were with someone that matters; it's the effort you put in," but then again, I have also never stayed with one person any longer than six months. As Tuccillo writes, "I have dates, I have flings, I have "situations." But I don't have men, one after another, whom I cart around as my boyfriend, and then break up with for some reason or another and say later to my friends "What was I thinking?"" (Tuccillo, 197).

But the more I see of the world and of other people, the girl who used to be content to sit on your sofa and order in starts to wonder, "Is there more than this?"

I'm tempted to say that there has to be. I'm tempted to say that despite people's fundamental differences, there is something that is akin to the look in someone's eye that makes them willing to stretch who they are and what they can do for someone else. I'm tempted to say that, because if I don't, I'm pretty much admitting defeat right here and right now. I'm also tempted to say it because we cannot live with all of our bullshit intact for the rest of our lives. We're all pretty ridiculous people who start out one way, and gradually change because of our love for someone else that is not ourselves. That is the only way we're ever going to get better than we are this very second. One day, there is going to be a guy who will look at me and say, "I'm not trying to clip your wings, so just fucking stand still with me for awhile more than a month or 6 months. It's not so horrible. If you keep trying to run, I'm just going to let you go." And if I care about him as much as I should, that will be the day that I should get smart enough to slow my roll and start thinking about someone other than just myself. And if I don't, or if you don't, then we really are all just helpless fools when it comes to love. So best of luck.

XOXO

Giving, Getting, And Graduation

My birthday is coming up, (in over a month, so um, don't get too excited,) and it's got me thinking of gifts and gift-giving lately.

About the only thing I really need is a bed for my new apartment, and my extremely loving and gracious family is making that dream come true for me. I am going to have the first queen-size bed of my life; in fact, the first bed larger than a twin. I am beyond excited, because this means that I will have all sorts of room to starfish out and share the bed with George, my faithful body-pillow. However, I already know that I'm still just going to sleep on the edge of the bed pressed up against the wall, like always. So it's the thought that matters; not the practice. Also, I guess this also now means I can have guests over in comfort, and not in hot and sweaty enforced spooning sessions. To this, I say hell yes. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good cuddle, but sweaty summertime spooning at night is not something that I am a huge fan of.

Also, Erin and Arielle recently introduced me to Regretsy, where I found this, a penis chapstick cozie. I have to admit, I was very taken with it. It's me in a very comic, non-serious way. For any other jokesters out there, this is a perfect gift. (Regretsy is also the perfect place to find really weird, really stupid, one-of-a-kind gag gifts for your friends with a discerning sense of humor.)

But penis chapstick cozies aside, this little keychain is probably what I want the most. Some of you might recognize it from the Sex and the City movie and think that it's a little tacky, but I think it's just fabulous. I love the idea of having a constant reminder on me. Also, it's large enough that I won't lose my keys or won't be able to find them at the bottom of my huge purses. It's just something so little, and I want it so bad.

Also, because it will be, yes, my I'm-a-legal-drinker birthday, I finally get to enact the plan I've been thinking of since I was (no lie) 16. (I've always taken my liquor very seriously.) A 21st birthday is the perfect time to start a really great liquor cabinet, and I've always held that the mark of a truly great host or hostess is that they have the liquor necessary to create your favorite drink. So, instead of asking for "stuff" or letting people take a shot in the dark, create a "liquor cabinet" list like an alcoholic's wedding registry, and let your friends bring you a bottle of each needed liquor. It doesn't have to be Stoli when Smirnoff will suffice, but you still need your basics: vodka, gin, rum, tequila, Triple Sec, scotch & whiskey (though I am never drinking it EVER. AGAIN), and a bottle of champagne. Insta-party. Oh, and a few 6-packs of good beer-- Blue Moon; Long Trail's Blackberry Wheat; Magic Hat's #9, Circus Boy, this summer's Odd Notion, and Braggot, if you can find it; and a good seasonal beer. You must NEVER forget the beer.

Graduation time is now, and there are always graduation gifts to be bought. Thankfully, being in Italy makes that pretty easy for me, so while I'm all done on the grad-shopping front, you may not be. Here are some of the things that I've stumbled across recently that might just make the cut:

For other writers out there, I've been obsessed with Smythson's writing goods since I was (not joking) about 7. I've received journals, ink and pens, and art sets from them, and I have to say-- cost is quality, especially in this regard. What about some personalized business stationary? An embellished leather business card case? Or a journal with advice emblazoned on the cover? Depending on the sentiment of graduation, you can go with "Now Panic and Freak Out," "Keep Calm and Carry On," "Work Hard and Be Nice To People," or just the classic, possibly even personalized. Nothing says "You've made it" like something from Smythson for the new grad.

Anyone who has ever worked a job that requires you to be up earlier than your 9 AM classes can tell you how important coffee is in their life. For this reason, a coffee maker is a great gift for grads. I have used many different coffee makers in many different jobs, but this one by Keurig has to be, by far, the best coffee I've ever had out of an electric coffee maker. Plus, it comes with control for brewing three different cup sizes-- which I like to think of as "good morning," "Good Morning!" and "GOOD MORNING WORLD, I'M GOING TO FUCK YOU UP TODAY!"

For a more sentimental take than screaming obscenities at the world in a caffeine-induced haze, Dr. Seuss's classic book, Oh, The Places You'll Go!, with a personal message written on the inside cover, and a road atlas for all the adventuring that they'll be doing.

For him, a really kick-ass personalized beer stein, pint glass, or beer mug.

For her, a get-away weekend. For some ladies, it could mean a weekend in New York City for spa treatments, cupcakes at Magnolia, shopping, dinner at one of the hip new restaurants, and drinks at a fabulous bar. For other girls, it could be a weekend camping trip, complete with gourmet s'mores, guitar jam sessions, henna tattooing, and kayaking. Only you know what your friend likes-- be creative!

If all else fails, I found this site to be helpful, if not slightly cliche at times.

And last but not least, money. Money is always a fool-proof gift for grads, because, chances are, they don't have it, and they're gonna need it.

XOXO

Repeat Mistakes

I’m getting to that age where it’s perfectly acceptable to sit around with my girl friends and discuss marriage. And that’s scary. I would like to freeze time right here, please.

Earlier tonight, five of us were sitting around the dining room table in our apartment discussing the fact that now that we’re in our twenties, the search for the Eternal Happy Ending, or, at least, a 2-point Engagement Ring and Iron-Clad Pre-Nup, is on. Though some of us aren’t actively looking, or some of us, in fact, aren’t looking for that storybook ending at all, we all could agree on one thing: Being with men is getting scary. It’s a total Goldilocks syndrome for your twenties: you’re scared out of your wits if you’re perfectly happy with them and see it ending all rosy and blissful, but you’re also scared shitless if it doesn’t seem like you’re getting anywhere with them.

“It’s so weird to think that the next person we’re with could be our potential future husband.”

“But I feel like every guy I date is just getting farther and farther away from who I would want to marry.”

“That’s why I like Sex and the City. Carrie didn’t get married until she was sure he was The One.”

“That’s the inherent flaw,” I interjected, having been over this thought a few times before. “Making the same mistakes over and over again isn’t called ‘failure’. It’s called ‘dating’.”

Two weeks ago, I downloaded the episode of SATC in which Carrie first says “I love you” to Mr. Big. When he doesn’t return the statement, she proclaims to the Ladies Who Brunch crew that unless he antes up within a week, she’ll have to end their relationship. When I watched it, I was initially floored. How could a woman end a relationship right after she admits to something like that? Isn’t that kind of the equivalent to Indian-giving or saying, “Oops, just kidding”? Isn’t that a bit quick to retract all those big emotions?

I get it now. You can say what you want and what you feel, but there are some things that you have to do because in the end, keeping yourself and your dignity is worth even more than anyone else is to you.

Maybe it’s because I’m an only child. Maybe it’s because I’m not good at sharing my feelings, or, in fact—sharing. Maybe it’s because I’ve been screwed over one too many times. But during my two day hike in Cinque Terra, I did a lot of thinking, because other than focusing on screaming calf muscles or the fact that my smoking has finally caught up with my respitory system, I had a lot of time to mull it over, and over, and over again. There’s nothing quite like being alone in nature with your thoughts. Coming back to Florence and civilization clinched it for me.

I’ve always been preoccupied with looking out for Number One first, something that I lost sight of in Italy, of all places. It’s not selfishness—it’s self-health-ness. My eternal problem is that I give and I give and I give and forgive and forgive and forgive, until the point where I’m not happy with myself, my lot in life, or what a push-over I’ve become. I am willing to do a lot for other people. But I’m done with the competing to prove it. The only thing I am not willing to do is sacrifice myself, or that maybe-unpromised Happy Ending in whatever form. I am young, and I am alive, and I am in Italy—quite possibly the Land of Love. If there is nothing else to love, there is always the sights and the sounds and the smells and the newness of living here for three months, which is not something I’m ever going to be able to get back. While there will always be some things you can work at, there are others that are fleeting and fresh and will never appear again. So it shouldn’t be squandered under dark clouds of doubt and regret and indecision and unhappiness. I’m not going to keep counting down the days until I leave. I am going to live instead for the Now and the Here and the Why Not? And if you want to squander, you can live however you wish.

If I can get out relatively unscathed, with my dignity still attached, then I’ll keep moving on and making my mistakes. As Passion Pit says in their song “Little Secrets” (on heavy repeat on my iPod), “Let this be our little secret; no one needs to know how I’m feeling.” There is no feeling quite like finally making up your mind. I feel lighter and more content with life than I have in months.

So maybe your twenties aren’t for being afraid of what’s ahead. Maybe your twenties are for wild abandon and enjoyment; late nights; new things; drinking and smoking too much; discovering yourself and new places; making up your mind, and brief moments of clarity and maturity. Maybe, as Carrie discovered, there is time later to go back and mend bridges if want be.

XOXO