For those of you who do not know, I am no longer Cohabitation Girl. Nor am I Relationship Girl. Now I am just Regular Single Holly. It is actually really weird after two years of dating someone. This is my first “real” break up and, let’s just say, it has not ended on good terms by any means. Nasty heinous fights, bouts of violence and some ambiguous Craigslist postings and correspondences were involved (not from me) – but we can get into that at another time. 
So – how to be single again?Last night I went to meet my friend Britt for dinner. To preface, Britt and I have been friends for over ten years. I met her when I was the ripe young age of 16 when she was a much older, wiser 18. I was totally jealous of her ability to not have a curfew and legally buy cigarettes at any location she chose. SHE didn’t have to drive 20 minutes away to the Mercado - where they did not ask for ID and forced you to put all of your nicotine purchases in a brown paper bag as to avoid the local policia who were waiting for minors to exit. My mom LOVES Britt – even though I have told her countless stories about how she was the one to introduce me to anything illegal I have ever seen. Not that this is an issue now and it does not seem to impact my mother’s opinion of her. But at 16, she was not the best influence I could have had. Regardless, we have had some pretty funny times growing up together. Britt lives pretty far out in the country so we agreed to meet in between our houses for dinner. This happens to be right next to where I went to high school so I end up seeing many people who have not left the area and feel the need to immediately tell them I went to college and have a real job when I see them. Regardless, the area has grown a lot in the past ten years since my attendance at what was known at one point as “Corn Field High” and there are many cute, young professionals who work and live there. Of course, Britt was running late and I had to wait at the bar. This was the first time since my messy break up with Rugby Guy where I have been to a bar alone and actually felt single. It was like stepping into Narnia. I looked around and there were so many men. Men in suits. I don’t know about you, but nothing is hotter than a young professional man right after he gets off work and takes off his tie and is sitting down to relax. They still look authoritative and professional but like they can still have fun. I also work in the software industry, so suits are few and far between.
I got a glass of wine and then sat. Alone. At the bar. I used to have to wait alone at bars all the time for friends before RG and it never bothered me. And then when you I had a boyfriend, I didn’t really care. I honestly didn’t even look at the men around me or notice if they were checking me out. (This is something that RG was clearly not doing when he was alone at bars with strange women) But this time it was different. I felt like it was a meat market. Any of these men could be my soulmate. I probably should have actually dried my hair! My legs were shaky like a baby fawn trying to walk again. I made awkward eye contact with every man in the bar and could not decide if they were looking at me because they knew I was not comfortable or because of “The Girls” I had prominently displayed prior to leaving my house. In the past, I have tried to compensate for my lack of flirting with the addition of a DD cup – so when I left the house I knew I had to arm myself with something. The worst part? Every conversation on every side of me involved someone talking about marriage or babies. Of course. After 20 minutes of fumbling with my iPhone and shifting uncomfortably in my stool, Britt arrived and announced she wanted to eat at the bar. Luckily there were no seats and I quickly ushered her to the back dining room where there were only families and people over the age of 55. I am really going to have to work on this Single Bar Time. Or start to collect cats.
OK So I took a small hiatus from blogging (and actually started another secret blog since my identity was given up on this one - It is a long story) But, I am back to blog. Writing is therapeutic for me and for all six of you who actually care what I am doing, I think I have some funny stuff going on ... So I posted a few things I wrote while on hiatus and then I will update you on the important things which have been going on in my life. You know you miss me ;)
OK, I am kind of a hypochondriac. I think it’s because when I grew up my mom was always telling me that things would give me cancer. Come to think of it, she still is. Just a few weeks ago I was sitting on her deck reading “InStyle” on a relaxing Saturday afternoon as I waited on her to get ready and she screamed from her bedroom window, which overlooks the back deck of her townhouse “CANCER! THE SUN IS BAD!” Looking back on the fact - I realize why I have analyzed every mole since I was 11, avoided microwaves and had a fear of cell phones until I was 20. Last week it was not so much a cancer scare for once – I decided I was pregnant. Even though my friends assured me I was not (what do THEY know??), I thought it was time to take a test. I had to go to the store regardless to get stuff for dinner so it was not inconvenient or anything to pick one up. Along with sex comes a host of things that can be scary, especially for a hypochondriac such as myself: Diseases. Babies. Yes, EVEN CANCER.I made a list before I went to the store: 1) Steak2) Sweet potatoes3) HPT4) WineHPT = Home Pregnancy Test. Is it weird that anytime I have to buy something even remotely embarrassing at the store I abbreviate what it is just in case someone else sees it? 
So I get all the things on my list and then covertly walk over to the HPT aisle. I casually begin scanning the tests. Of course everything in that section is pretty embarrassing so regardless of if I tried to make it look like I was involved in a causal lube purchase or getting an HPT, there would still be judgment. There are so many tests – which one do I get!? I was deciding between a mid-priced one and one that was hot pink with directions in Spanish for $8.00. Why is it that no friends write back to you when you are making important decisions!? I concluded that this probably was not the time to cheap out and I picked a test.
Now on to the wine section! I did not even think about the implications of perusing the wine aisles with a pregnancy test in my cart. (It was for celebration in case I wasn’t!) – I also had put some beer in the cart for my boyfriend, Todd, and found some special beer we had tried at a beer festival (also in cart next to test).
Then a man stops me and asks, “Would you like to do some wine tasting?”… My natural response was “YES, I was just about to make an alcohol decision actually!” - I love it when they do wine tastings at the grocery store. It is like a little haven amidst the chaos of babies and mothers barreling around picking out groceries and stressed out men who are clearly in trouble with their wives buying flowers and wine. Don’t even get me started on the kid sized carts they offer for children to drive. Those things are dangerous. An oasis of wine is just what I need!
The woman next to me smiles a friendly smile as the man fills up my tiny cup of wine. And then I see her eyes shift to the cart. Shit! The pregnancy test is practically glowing on top of my groceries. What do I do?? I could tell her it was for my sister – it’s not for me. Or tell her that I did not even think I was pregnant; I am just doing it for good measure. I fumble around and try to put the steaks over the test – I also dropped a thing of mushrooms and had to chase them across the floor. People began to crowd around the wine tasting. This is ridiculous, there was ONE woman here when I came up and now I am totally surrounded. I have to get out. I have the man pour the tiny wine pours as fast as he can and I throw them back like shots. When he gives me a quizzical look – I smile at him and beam “I was in a sorority,” this excuse works well for everything. All this and I am considering the impacts of the tiny wine shots if I really am pregnant. Don’t they say it’s okay to have a glass of red wine a day? Wait, maybe that is for your heart?!?! I don’t know!!!
I rushed out of the store and ran home straight to the bathroom. I had to make sure I was not going to cause Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. That SECOND, I got my monthly visitor. Of course.
It’s pretty safe to say that if hypochondria can set in about my unborn theoretical baby, my mom did her job well. Thanks, Mom. When I really am pregnant you will have to deal with the repercussions of daily questions.
What happens after you turn 25? I always thought you fell into this abyss of married “grown up” people with babies who were so terribly boring I never even wanted to talk about them. These people clearly did not go out 4 nights a week and drink copious amounts of Peach Andre and raspberry vodka until they made a slurred call to the sorority DD to come pick them up downtown. They had “jobs” and “homes” and paid their own cell phone bills and car insurance and EVERYTHING.
I am now one of those people. A grown up. Well, kind of.
It seems like just yesterday I was sitting in my college apartment with my roommates watching “The Real World Road Rules Challenge” (or anything MTV aired) on an endless loop and waking up at 11 every day (anything earlier than this was CRAZY talk). And now I work at a software company!? I’m not going to lie; I could barely navigate the internet in college, let alone tell you there was a difference between software and hardware. Yet, here I am. I have officially been working for FOUR years and am on my third “real job”. That’s as long as I was IN college.
Every time I think about that I officially feel old. The funny thing is I don’t feel grown up at all. I own my own place. The guy I have been dating for over a year lives with me. I do normal things like grocery shopping and pay my bills and I typically cannot go out for more than two glasses of wine on a week night without it resulting in a killer headache the following day. It’s like I have all the elements of being a suburban housewife in place but they don’t totally align. I am too young to be a real housewife - People are not housewives at 26!
And trust me; with the daily situations I find myself in … I am pretty sure that I am not ready to be a real grown up. Not yet at least.
