I Need To Talk To The Person In Charge Of Changing Humans Into Dogs

I went out with my roommates last night and drank too much wine.  Story of my life.

Earlier this morning, I watched this video to help cure my hangover and take my mind off the fact that I have to sit in a rolly chair for the next eight hours and stare at my computer screen.

And then I realized… I’m so jealous of dogs.

Forget girls with nice hair, girls who can plow through three bacon cheeseburgers and not gain a pound, girls who have their dream job before age twenty-five, girls (and boys) with independently wealthy families that get to exclusively shop at Whole Foods. Forget all of them.

I want to be a dog.

Aside from the fact that they get to know one another by smelling butts, being a dog is pretty awesome.  I guess I could also do without the whole eating bark flavored kibble bits, too.  But we’ll save my grievances for the time I actually turn into a dog, which is hopefully my next life.  My previous life I was a cat and I was just angry all the time, so I pray I’ve gathered enough good karma in my human life to be worthy of a canine in my next one.

First of all, I’d never have to wear clothes.  It would completely eliminate the whole waking up every morning and try on seven outfits thing and still manage to walk out the door with one shoe.  Nope. None of that would be an issue.  Because I could roll out of bed and magically have a sweater on when it’s cold, or a furry bathing suit on when it’s hot.  Just being happy in the skin suit God gave me ready to take on the world.

If I was a dog, no one would ever care if I was fat.  Sure, I’ve set off a few alarms by feeding my pup too many pork chops or lamb shanks, but it’s because she deserves it.  And as a dog, I would deserve it, too.  Being loyal is a tough job, and it’s one that requires compensation in the form of delicious food you’re not allowed to eat, ever. No one ever complains about dogs being too fat, there’s just more to love, that’s all. Big is beautiful in Canine Country, and I have a one way ticket to Fat Island.

I’ve told a number of people this, but for my last ten minutes of life, I want someone with a good set of fingernails and a strong wrist to stroke my arm and give me a head rub.  Maybe a bloody mary, but that can be negotiated.  Pup life is full of these sorts of activities.  People practically slap box each other to get a chance to pet a puppy. I WANT SOMEONE TO PET ME, DAMNIT.  Head rubs and belly scratches will have me in a constant state of bliss, which last time I checked, no one complains about bliss.

A good wingwoman is hard to find.  Not with a dog.  If you want to attract someone, there is no better way than bringing along your four-legged friend.  I don’t know what it is about humans, I think we have leg envy and are just innately jealous that we can go through life on all fours.  There is no better conversation topic than asking what breed the dog is (I would obviously be a Saint Bernard and run shit) then following up by asking the age.  What started off as an innocent walk through the park ends with you walking down the aisle and Meg the Saint Bernard is your ring bearer.  You’re welcome.

Lastly, I want a bomb ass name.  Dogs are always given the most extreme names that humans could never live up to.  I want to saunter through life as Ulysses the Great Dane, or Chianti the cultured Sheppard. Instead I’m stuck here living life as a boring old human with the most basic one syllable name on the planet. Meg sucks. Ulysses RULES.

I just want to tan on my driveway during all seasons and soak up warmth.  I just want to be a dog.

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Not one, but five #BFFs

I don’t think you learn just one thing from your best friends, but a multitude of things.

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It is impossible to put into words how important and instrumental these five women were in helping shape who I am today.  There is something about the longevity of our friendship that is perplexing – because normally, putting five girls in a room together would almost always result in a sacrifice, sabotage, or slander – but we’ve made it past the point of petty arguments and low blows.  We’ve survived, endured, and sustained.

I am lucky in the fact that I’ve had the same group of friends from third grade.  We are all still close. Our friendship has encompassed the majority of my life, spanning twelve or more years, and continues to, for a lack of a better word, mature.

They were all there when I felt like complete shit.  They all witnessed the most defining moments of my life.  The all have helped me change, grow, and flourish.

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*

Friends leave an imprint on your soul that no family member or significant other can replicate.  You become part of each other whether you want to or not.  I constantly find myself embodying little quirks that are only explained by going back to a mall, beach, high school party, concert, or a parking lot on my eighteenth birthday.

And then, there are just some things I do that cannot be explained by anyone or anything, and I don’t really know how to feel about it quite yet.

My friend Jocelyn is an acrobat and should be in the circus.  I mean this in the best way possible.  I swear to God this girl has more things on her plate than a professional eater.  Yet, she always makes it look effortless.  Her myriad of commitments span most of her weekdays, consume her weekends, and leave little time for sleep.  Yet she is always the first one to pick up the phone and call me – just because she has time.  She has taught me that there is a way to juggle all the things you need to have in life, and to do it with a good heart and good intentions.

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Then there is Sam, who has, for the entire time I’ve known her, taught me to never compromise on anything.  There is someone out there for you; it just may not be right now.  They are called standards for a reason, and if we didn’t have them, the world would be a bunch of monkeys dressed in suits trying to steal your banana on the way to work.  Go for the job you want, but start with the job you need.  Always have a goal that you want to achieve because it’s the only way you’ll better yourself.  Don’t change yourself for anyone or anything.

Katie is the most accomplished, and the one who has done everything first.  She has consistently shown what it means to be an independent, self-sufficient, and completely reliable woman.  Following your heart is a suggestion, using intuition is a requirement.  It is possible to be truly happy, healthy, and successful in your mid-twenties.  She is the perfect example of what it looks like to follow your heart, and still be able to live out your dreams.

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Megan is living proof that beauty and brains can coexist – and not in the superficial, compliment seeking way.  Staying grounded is the key to figuring out what you want in life, not just settling for what you can get. It’s a skill to fight through hardships, both familial and relational, and to do it with grace and sophistication.  Some people grow up too fast, but in some instances, it’s a blessing that allows you to understand loyalty, devotion, and selflessness.  Phrasing this in the best way that I can: I know that this girl would do some absolutely terrible things to keep her loved ones safe – and you cannot teach that.

Through all my terrible clothing choices, Julie has taught me how to find what works and make it your own.  It may not be the most fabulous shirt on the planet, but if you pair it with the right accessory, anything can look stunning.  Fashion intuition cannot be taught – and it’s something I do not take for granted in a friend.  You need someone to tell you when your slouchy boots make you look like a homeless Pocahontas, as well as someone to verify that scarves are acceptable and encouraged year round, and boot season is something to be cherished, worshiped, and never overlooked.

LlamaLoveAlways.

LlamaLoveAlways.

Sure, there people that I’ve known longer than these girls, but none of them have taught me anything remotely as valuable as them.  Five is always better than one.  I think math taught me that.  I’ve learned how to create my own style, live life to the fullest, never compromise, find balance within the chaos, and to fight for what you want.  These are lessons that are so simple, yet so many people go about their lives without ever truly learning them.

I want to personally thank Megan, Jocelyn, Sam, Katie, and Julie for growing up with me, dealing with me, molding me, helping me, and above all, being friends with me.  Without you, I would not be who I am today.

I love you betches.

Related:

  1. Friends | The Magic Black Book
  2. You want to see best friends against the world? | From One Crazy Life To Another
  3. Daily Prompt: BFFs | Journeyman
  4. Voices | Momma Said There’d Be Days Like This
  5. A Speck Of Green – Part 1(Looking for Dad) | The Jittery Goat
  6. Kith and kin | Perspectives on life, universe and everything
  7. Daily Prompt: BFFs | tnkerr-Writing Prompts and Practice
  8. things to learn | y

26 Things the Grammys taught me.

THANKS!!!

THANKS!!!

The 2014 Grammys and malbec go together like wine and everything else every day of my life.  Kendrick Lamar was robbed in broad nightlight.  Revenge will be sought.  So yeah, in a nutshell, this is what I learned:

Pharrell Williams gave everyone a preview of his halloween costume.

Guess I can’t be Indiana Jones this year. Damnit.

Kendrick Lamar is perfect.

I would have locked him down as my prom date and future boyfriend so fast in high school.  We could have awkwardly slow danced to Vitamin-C’s “Graduation” whilst daydreaming about our future. Hey Kendrick, call me… not maybe.  Call me for real.

Yes, yes I will marry you.

Yes, yes I will marry you.

Rita Ora is my bff in my head.

Move over, Jennifer Lawrence, you are no longer my #1.  Rita Ora just turned the imaginary bff game upside down.  Multi-color packman nails? SIGN. ME. UP. Besties fo’ lyfe.  Rita, have your people call my people (my mom) and let’s set up a time to hang out.  Maybe we can go to an amusement park or I can be your +1 to an exclusive hollywood party in which I meet Drake and we get married…  You can pick.

Kevin Hart is so small.

I didn’t just learn this tonight.  But I did learn he is an entire torso shorter than everyone else in the world.

too short to ride this ride.

too short to ride this ride.

The term “baby bump” is uncomfortable.

Just stop it. Stop.  Traffic terminology is not acceptable when referencing pregnancy.

Lorde needs to be diagnosed with arthritis.

There is no other explanation for the clenching of the fingers.  I’m not even a doctor and I know claw hands are not a desirable trait to have.  She’s either secretly practicing witchcraft or preparing for Halloween as an elderly woman.

Broomsticks double as stripper poles.

I knew witches and wizards had a little something extra with wands and pointy hats, but now you’re telling me their brooms are also stripper poles?  Some people have all the luck.  I see you winding and grinding up on that pole, Hermoine.

Headgear is on the cusp of becoming a fashion staple.

LL Cool J has worn the same newsboy hat since ’93. Daft Punk with star wars helmets.  Pharrell embodying Indiana Jones.  Zac Brown beanie swag.

John Legend looks like a cartoon.

Has anyone ever walked the earth as a living, breathing animation better than John Legend?  A straight up cross between Cleveland from Family Guy and Gerald from Hey Arnold.

just an afro away.

just an afro away.

Taylor Swift is the most loveable and hateable person on the planet. 

Her dancing. Her hair flipping. I love her songs. I can’t stand her being so shocked all the time.  She knows she’s good – own it. Stop being all surprised people relate to you.

There are only six awards during the entire show.

This shouldn’t be considered an award show.  It’s more of a two-hour time block in which you get a glimpse into every single possible facet of music using only the most famous and/or popular people in each genre.  It’s like going to a music festival and only caring about three out of the ninety bands playing.  Waste of time.

The circus revival is not going to happen until Barnum and Bailey both give Pink a personal phone call.

I mean seriously.  How many times is this girl supposed to dangle from a sheet without a harness before they deem her worthy?  She clearly wants in on the Ringling Bros. GIVE THE GIRL A CHANCE.

Give this girl a job already.

Give this girl a job already.

Visa Mastercard is doing Priceless Surprises and I need to have it happen to me.

Where do I sign up and how much money do I need to spend to have Aaron Paul and Kendrick Lamar show up at my doorstep and hang out with me?

Kendrick Lamar won the Grammys and punched the world right in the eyeball. 

Don’t care how long Taylor Swift sultry stared into the camera demanding recognition for her relational hardships, or how mysterious Katy Perry’s mystical forest was, Kendrick just performed in an all white track suit and didn’t suck.  Done.

Kacey Musgraves is better than TSwift and everyone needs to know it.

When you stop complaining about relationships when you’re pretty, rich, and famous, and be less annoying all around, you have Kacey Musgraves.  Get it girl.

The Osbournes need to make their comeback and reclaim their throne as reality tv royalty.

tumblr_n01go0lTMC1qz82gvo1_500

Yo MTV, bring back The Osbournes.

Go away, Kardashians, the patriarch of the metal head family dynasty needs to return to MTV.  Ozzy’s presentation delivery was phenomenal.  And we need more of this in our lives.

Everyone now knows what a nursing home talent show would look like. 

Willie Nelson and company showing us , literally how old they are.  If your grandma asks you to come see her performance in the talent show at Sweet Acres Retirement Center, just respond with a, “Thanks, but I think I’ve had my fill of adult entertainment for a while.”

The Storm Troopers made an appearance.

Oh, wait.  That was just Daft Punk being Daft Punk.

Kristen Stewart has passed the awkward torch.

Lorde just stole that flame; just absolutely the most awkward person on the planet channeling Elvira at the Grammys. And…. posture. Learn it, live it, love it.

safety first. silence second.

safety first. silence second.

Daft Punk needs to give a speech at my wedding.

I don’t care who I need to pay, or what soul I need to sell, it will happen, and it will be silent as hell.

Lindsey Buckingham made an appearance.

And Keenan Thompson wasn’t a part of it.  I was praying on all deities for a What Up Wit Dat re-enactment.  SNL for the win

Lindsey Buckingham Saturday Night Live May 14 b

the best.

Bolo ties are real, and they’re here to stay.

Macklemore, Bruno Mars, the NFL.  Who’s next?

Madonna never left her music video.

In case you were wondering, the reigning Queen of Pop still thinks she’s in her music video for, “Don’t Tell Me,” cowboy hat included.

Kent Knappenberger needs to open up a restaraunt. 

Mail it in on the teaching music.  If I don’t have a Knappenburger with extra BBQ sauce and a side of onion rings by Friday, I’m quitting my job, renouncing my United States citizenship, and becoming a nomad (just kidding… unless it really happens).  Also, if he didn’t win beard of the year award, it went to ZZ Top, and that’s fair, but I think they should do a recount.

pass the torch already

pass the torch already

White suits are the only way to establish dominance.

Backstreet Boys did it in the 90s, and 2014 is bringing it back. Kendrick Lamar, Imagine Dragons, and Daft Punk all asserting their power over the music industry with full on white on white suits.  Just a sweatband and an Adidas high top sneaker away from an NBA practice squad.

Daft Punk got lucky.

In no way, shape, or form should they have beat out Kendrick Lamar.  But the biggest cop out is the fact that they received this honor and can’t even speak for themselves.  I can’t tell if I hate them or respect them for staying in character.

… and now it’s time for bed. Malbec and Meg out.

DailyPost

CloudLife 101.

A lot of people buy sports cars or elaborate vacation homes when they reach their mid-life crisis.

My father chose to take up skydiving.

He spent his week commuting to work in his fabulous, pre-owned, 2003 Ford Taurus – a car our family so wonderfully dubbed, the Golden Gladiator – he spent the weekend riding in a different type of vehicle.  One that happens to elevate over 12,500 feet above ground level.

While your parents may have had to extend their car insurance policy to encompass that new Porsche or Corvette, my mother had to sign off on a life insurance policy.  You know, just in case my dad died mid-flight or whatever.

On my twenty-first birthday, my dad walks into my room with a question, “How would you feel about going skydiving?”

I weighed my options, thinking to myself, “Is this something I really want to do?  Jumping out of a plane is a pretty serious activity.  And totally dangerous.  I don’t know if I want to take that kind of risk…”

That is completely false.  As soon as the question left his mouth, my voice was already in full-fledged, freak out mode.

“UMMMMMMMMMMMMM, are you serious? HOW CAN I NOT GO SKYDIVING?!?!?! Tell Mr. Shaw, the butler, to clear my schedule. TODAY, I WILL BE WITH THE CLOUDS!”

And was in the front seat, buckled up, and had posted a Facebook status before he even finished his sentence.

It’s a pretty well-known fact that I am completely obsessed with clouds.  Like, I know everything about them.  Cumulonimbus, altostratus, fog, you name it, I love it.  So when I heard the words ‘sky’ and ‘diving’ come out of my father’s mouth, you better believe that I immediately jumped (no pun intended, but totally intended) at the chance to hang out in higher altitudes.

We get to the ranch, which is essentially a giant field enclosed by a wooden fence, and go to this hut to check in.  My dad elects to have my first attempt at sky flight filmed and photographed, “You’re going to want to look at this later, trust me, kid.”

My father calls me kid. I don’t know why. I guess I am still a child… mentally?

Getting harnessed up by Lars.

Getting harnessed up by Lars.

I get harnessed and strapped six ways to Neptune, then meet the guy who is essentially responsible for my life.  He is no shorter than six-foot-three, skinny, and extremely Russian.

“Hello, I am Lars, I will be your tandem.” He tells me as he pulls up his goggles away from his eyes.

He hands me what looks like a leather yamika with straps, and points at my hair, “Put this on your head. Your hair is wild. I don’t want that curly bun my face.” Then handed me a pair of plastic goggles. These looked more like a see-through bikini a doll would wear on vacation than something I’d use to cover my eyeballs.

We march to the plane, and take our seats inside.  The plane takes off, and all I see is the field getting smaller and smaller.  We reach the desired altitude, and they swing open the side door.

The videographer stands  up, snaps a picture, and holds on to the bar on the side of the doorway.

“Are you ready?” Lars asks me before interrupting my answer, “It doesn’t matter, because you are strapped in you see?  You go where I go. And we are going down.”

I am completely strapped in to this man.  We have to move our legs in unison to take steps forwards towards the doorway.  We are inches away from free falling.

*

Nice goggles, eh?

Then he says the most magical words I’ve ever heard, “Do you want to go through a cloud, or wait and go around it?”

“UMMMMM. I want to go through a goddamn cloud.”

The videographer jumps out of the plane, and we rock back and forth and “THREE… TWOO…”

He doesn’t even wait until 1 to push off the landing and into the open air.  My face is being slapped seven ways to Sunday with wind in every direction.  I see the videographer below me, snapping pictures, so I give my best thumbs up.

I feel my cheeks being pushed backwards towards my ears, inevitably making me look like a chipmunk. But I don’t even care, because we jumped right smack dab into the middle of a big ass cumulonibus cloud.

Realizing this, I look straight into the video camera and scream, “OH MY GOD, I AM IN A CLOUD. I AM IN A [EXPLETIVE] CLOUD!”

Best looking chipmunk in the sky?

Best looking chipmunk in the sky?

Turns out, playing the video back, you can’t hear me, you can only see me mouthing the words and doing rapid hand movements which I assume means I was just really excited.

We were freefalling for what felt like a lifetime, but was actually probably thirty seconds when Lars called out, “MEG. PULL THE PARACHUTE.”

And just like I practiced, I unloaded the parachute – like a champion, I might add.

We coasted under the parachute for another minute or two until we were in clear sight of the landing spot.  I didn’t realize how awkward the whole man-strapped-on-your-back thing was until I wasn’t hopped up on adrenaline, realizing it was all ending soon.

Approaching the landing, I did as I was taught, and made sure my feet were lifted off the ground, as to prevent any broken legs. We landed, Lars freed me from my buckle harness, and gave me a high five.  “Did you have fun?” He asked.

The answer was obvious, but I couldn’t put my feelings into words.

It was even better than I imagined.

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Burritos After Dark.

Disclaimer: This is a true story about one time when I was hungry.  When I’m hungry, I do not think clearly. As a result, I may or may not have found myself romantically linked to the delivery man.

One night, in the cozy one-bedroom apartment where I had invited myself to sleep over, my friend Loren and I found ourselves miraculously hungry.  We had an entire day filled with activities – both good and bad – and a midnight snack was the sole solution to all of our problems. 

“Burritos.” I demanded.  Loren agreed, nodding her head in approval.

We ordered our late night Mexican feast online, and got a confirmation and a delivery estimate of one hour.  But time moved at what seemed like a glacial pace.  Seconds barely turned into minutes, and even though the hour was drawing near, my cell phone was not ringing to signify that my post-dinner fast was over.

Loren looked over at me in realization, and informed me of society’s bi-annual observance of modern day time travel,  “It’s Daylight Savings, Meg, we just fell back an hour.”

“It’s technically 1am.” She mentioned, pointing at the clock, even though it clearly showed the little hand at the 2.  “Does this mean my burrito is going to take another hour?” The question came out of my mouth in the same tone that children use when asking for their mothers’ permission to eat thirds from the Thanksgiving dessert buffet.

“We should just call and find out,” she suggested in a rational, adult tone, “he could be on his way right now.”  Slightly panicked, I picked up the phone and dialed.  It rang, and rang, and rang, until finally, the answering machine picked up, “Hello, you’ve reached Burrito Taqueria, please leave a message.”

I was not prepared for this.  So I did what any sane, hungry, person would do in that situation; I left a message.

“Uhhmm, yes, hi, my name is Meg. I ordered two burritos about an hour and a half ago,” I sounded stern, I think, “I was just wondering if you guys observed Daylight Savings? Because I’m very hungry, and don’t know if I can wait an–” I hung up mid thought.

It was at that moment when I realized what I was saying was being recorded and could be replayed at anyone’s convenience, and my name was on the order. Ending the call was my only choice, even if it was mid-sentence.

I took a sip of wine, got a rush of adult-grape confidence, picked up the phone, and hit redial.

“Hello, Burrito Taqueria, how can I help you?” The man on the other end asked, politely, in a hispanic accent. “Umm, yeah, hi, I just called about five minutes ago,” I responded,  “I just wanted to ask if you had listened to any of your messages recently?”

There was a pause, and in a slightly concerned tone, he responded, “No, why?” I was relieved, and immediately pleaded with him,  “Could you please maybe just go back and delete the message I left on the answering machine” before adding this red-flag statement,  “but also don’t listen to it.”

“Why?” He asked, seriously confused with my request, and probably concerned that I was insane, “Was it offensive?”

“Truthfully, no.  It is just really embarrassing, and I don’t think I want that kind of audio being played at your leisure, sir.” I answered, “But I’m also calling because I’d like to know where my burritos are. It’s been over an hour,”  I added, to make my phone call sound justified, “and I know it’s Daylight Savings, but–”

“What is your name?” he interrupted, as if to look up my order. “Meg.” I answered, helping to give him all my information. “I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything wrong with the order.” I was sinking lower and lower into the couch, thinking of the worst possible scenarios in my head.  All involving me, alone, sans burrito.

“Hi Meg, I’m Hugo.” He introduced himself via phone line.

“Where are you from?” I wondered, out loud, accidentally. “I am from Mey-hee-koh.” He answered in an accent.

And then I did whatever happens when someone with an accent speaks to me.  I attempt to replicate it for no apparent reason, and never stop myself until it’s too late.

“Ahh, May-hee-koh.” I mimicked, then realized I was being a jackass as well as losing complete sight of why I had called in the first place.

Continuing my thought, I asked, “Hi. Wait, Hugo, do you not have customers right now? ” This was done in an effort to make him focus on locating my missing Mexican roll-ups. “Oh! Yes, I do!” He replied, discovering people waiting at the register.

“Let me put you on hold.”  Without waiting for my response, elevator music filled my ears.  About three minutes later, I hear a click on the other end of the line, “Hello? Meg?”

“Yes, I’m here.” I laughed while responding. I was just put on hold and I wasn’t even asked if it was okay.

“I feel bad,” he apologized, “I want to give you a free dessert.  Would you like a flan or a rice pudding?”

“Neither.” I said politely, still laughing at how I just voluntarily stayed on the line listening to elevator music, and was now back to casually conversing about dessert options with a man I had never met.

“Well, what do you want instead?” He asked in a rebuttal.  At that moment, I dug into my treasure trove of late-night cravings, and began to list them all off in a rapid fire sequence.

“Do you have sweet potato fries?” I asked. “No.”

“Onion rings?” I suggested. “No. We don’t have those”

“Mozzarella sticks?” I wondered. “No, sorry.”

“Chocolate cake?” I just threw it out there.  “No. Only flan or rice pudding for dessert.”

I was running out of options. “Ice cream?” I asked, hopeful.  “No,” he replied, “but I can run to the gas station next door and get you some.”

“What about some Taquitos?” I concluded. “No, sorry. No taquitos.” He answered.  I didn’t know if he was joking or not. “You’re a Mexican restaurant,” I pointed out to him, “and you don’t have even one taquito lying around?”

“I’m sorry, but I will personally deliver your food to you,” he offered as a consolation, “I will leave here in five minutes, will you be awake?” Asking, as if to redeem himself in the conversation.

“Yes,” I shrugged, looking at Loren for confirmation, “we will be watching Netflix.” That statement was totally pertinent to his time management and delivery, by the way.  I look at my phone, noticing that the timestamp on the call was just about sixteen minutes.

After hanging up, Loren and I promptly begin to debrief the awkwardly long conversation that just occurred. “What do you think he looks like?” I wondered out loud, while picturing a tall, dark, handsome type in my mind. “If we have children, I will totally name them Taquito and Rice Pudding.” I started planning out this ridiculous imaginary life with Hugo, who I had never met, and would probably never see again.

We’re fifteen minutes into an episode of New Girl, when my phone lights up with a call from an unknown number.  “Hello?” I have the phone on speaker.  “Yes,” I hear him say, “I am downstairs.” I have never sprung up from a bed that fast in my life.  We run downstairs, tip in hand, ready to receive our long awaited food.

And then I see him.

He was not tall, dark, and handsome.  We would not be having two children named after appetizers and desserts respectively, nor would we be spending the rest of our lives together.  But he was holding my food, and that filled me with glee.

“Hi, I’m Meg.” I introduce myself, as I open the door and reach out to grab the bag filled with what I can only assume is my late-night treat, “How old are you?” I ask.  Because, at this point, why not?

He hesitates, “How old do you think I am?”  And now, standing in the doorway, face to face with the same man who told me he’d go next door to a gas station and bring me ice cream,  and I have no idea how to respond.

I figure my best shot is to give an age range and hope for the best, “I’m going to say, between thirty and thirty-five.” I was pretty confident.

Perplexed, he asks,  “Wait… What does that mean?” Just as confused with his confusion, I explain, “Well, it means you’re either, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, or thirty-five.” I simultaneously count using my fingers, making sure I’ve included all ages within this rage.

“Oh, well I am twenty-eight.” He says after giving me my food, “and I gave you some King Sized Junior Mints, my coworker did not want them.” This is in addition to the flan, just because.

“Oh, well, thank you for those.”  I make a gesture to sign the receipt in an effort to end this encounter and not have it become more awkward that it already was.

food on the brain.

food on the brain.

I close the door, food in hand, and walked up four floors to the cozy apartment where I had invited myself to sleep over.  Loren and I ate burritos at 3am, watched the second half of that New Girl episode, and talked about how I just very, very recently made tentative plans involving the man who just delivered our food and two children named Taquito and Rice Pudding.

Because when you have a long day filled with activities – both good and bad – the sole solution to all your problems is a midnight snack.

Just make sure it’s not Daylight Savings.

Being Single Does Not Mean You Are Alone.

There aren’t many situations I encounter where I am in the minority.

I am at that stage of life where I guess I am supposed to start making commitments that will last longer than a bout of healthy eating or an attempt at keeping up with a gym membership.

But I am a late bloomer in more than one sense.  My body, face, and fashion sense absolutely took its precious time developing during adolescence and into early adulthood.

I am also not in any way, shape, or form ready to make choices regarding life-long commitments like many of my friends, coworkers, and family members.

This is where I find myself on the wrong side of the fence.  On the outside looking in.

I am at a point in my life where I am just figuring out how to support myself, cook food that is not poisonous, and make choices that won’t significantly impact how my skin looks after I turn 35 (yes, mom, I am using sunscreen).

I cannot imagine committing the rest of my life to someone.  I could accidentally poison them, and I am not ready for those repercussions.

I can’t even figure out how to stop drinking after one glass of wine.  How am I supposed to talk finances and and mortgage rates when I have ten dollars in my pocket and all I can think about is how many 3$ wine bottles I can buy at Trader Joes?

Objectively speaking, I am just not ready for it.  That is not to say that I am against people who have found that person with whom they want to spend the rest of their lives.

I saw my best friend get married at twenty-three this past May, and it was amazing.  When you witness unconditional love, it is truly a magical experience.

But people are wired differently.  If we were all the same at every point in life, our existence would be stable, predictable, and utterly mundane.  The idea that you don’t know what is coming next is fascinating, exciting, and makes life worth living.

I hear a lot of people complain that they are the only single one in their group of friends, like it is a curse, disease, or something to be discouraged.

We should stop associating the word ‘single’ with negative ideals.  It is not a deplorable state of being in which we are forced to constantly fight and claw our way out, knowing that a human counterpart is the sole way to reach complete happiness.

Being single is an opportunity and an advantage not afforded to everyone.   It is a chance to take risks, like moving into an apartment with three complete strangers off Craigslist.  Or a time to find out what you genuinely enjoy doing, like writing about how ugly you were in middle school or your complete inability to adhere to social cues.

DAD?

DAD?

It’s a waste of time, energy, and your face before it wrinkles to worry about not having a significant other.  Take advantage of the fact that you don’t have to answer to anyone and do the craziest things while you still can.

Ride a horse in South America with a cape and a margarita.

Because who wouldn’t want to live out an inter-continental alcoholic equestrian superhero fantasy?

Dress up like a Christmas tree with your friends and pretend every other topiary structure is your relative.

Because…. why not?

When you’re older, I promise it will be way more fun to think about when you and your friends held hands and prayed with three strange men in the middle of Boylston street during the Red Sox victory parade.

yes, that actually happened.

yes, that actually happened.

It won’t be so fun to think about how many things you missed out on because you were too busy wishing you had a boyfriend or girlfriend.

 Take heart in the fact that you can have just as much, if not more fun with your friends and family while you’re single. 

Embrace each opportunity and event and treat it like it will be the last time you’ll ever live through it.

Because the next time you are on Boylston Street after the Red Sox win the world series, you may not be with your best friends, but with your boyfriend, and he sure as hell won’t allow you to hold hands and say a prayer with strange men in the street.

Think about it.