Chapter 97: Magic Ribbon

I am from Slobovia. 

Hair wild, makeup fossilized after sixteen hours, contacts like potato chips begging to escape the confines of my eyes.

 I can’t wait to climb into bed, but I hear comfort food at the local bar calling my name, so I squeeze out one last tiny bit of energy to walk across the street.  I stumble toward the entrance half-aware, probably looking drunk but really just exhausted. I pull open the door to the keeper of my coveted cheeseburger, which I am fully intending to sweep away to my own little paradise to watch half an episode of Hoarders and collapse into bed. 

 I walk in and booming music slaps me awake, crashing over my head like a bucket of ice in 2014. I was just intending to carry out my comfort food. They have never had music here, other than some random asshole in the bar deciding to play every awful garage band song from the 90’s on the jukebox, an inescapable tyranny of musical inanity inflicted upon the rest of us poor unfortunate souls. No wonder we drink. 

It’s a DJ, and this place is absolutely packed on a night I expected to see two pot bellied drunks and a couple tumbleweeds. Thirty through fiftysomethings have the dance floor jammed and here I am, native Slobovian in my sweatshirt and leggings, things I was formerly going to put to bed with me in them.  

Now, saying I like to dance is the understatement of the century… like saying Kim Kardashian likes being the center of attention. Or Google likes your personal information. Or Ted Bundy likes Volkswagens with the seats removed. You get the idea. 

I walk in the door, and instantly, I want to dance. I am going to dance. A thousand men couldn’t stop me from dancing. Unless one was Channing Tatum. 

And no one could stop him from dancing, either. I mean, why would you?

Food forgotten, the music is in control, and I join the waggling sardines packed on the floor. I get down. I get up. I gyrate. I do all those words like gyrate that are awkwardly used in books to describe dancing. Isn’t it the worst when an author attempts to use words to describe dancing? Or sex. Or kissing. Or dancing sex while kissing. It’s always an unwieldy verbal version of a twelve-year old with a squeaky pubescent voice trying to articulate something serious…”hE LOwered hiS SOft, moISt, deSIRing liPS to HEr PuLsAtInG…” It renders it all hysterically awkward . Really, the more words, the worse it gets, so I’ll just say…I’m dancing.

And the most dreadful thing happens, and instantly I know I should never have set foot outside the door in my pajamas. 

I see someone I know. 

Not only that, it’s a guy I’ve never met in person, that I know only from Facebook. His posts were hysterical, and I would pitch in my two cents of sarcasm here and there as well (maybe  more like 38 cents, depending on the exchange rate.).  He waves and smiles, so much for not being recognized. He is dancing like a Chippendale’s last day on furlough when the DJ suddenly  decides to take a break.

 Awww.  

The guy motions me towards a table full of people who are clearly with him. I follow, curious. This is the first time I’ve met someone who was only a figment of my Facebook imagination, but whaddaya know? He actually exists. 

“Nice to finally meet in person!” I say, a bit nervous. “HA! Likewise.” He calls over to a big, tough looking guy with blonde spiky hair who looks like a linebacker (they’re the giant ones, right? I honestly have no business using sports metaphors.) and says, “Add her!” 

Add her?

Add her to what?? Did I just become a swinger? An Amway distributor? Jehovah’s Witness?  Freemason??!

And just like that, a bit of my destiny shifts, without me even knowing quite what’s going on. 

He introduces me to everyone at the table, and I start getting excited. This is a singles group, but, purposefully and significantly, NOT a dating group. Businesswomen and men, career folks, social butterflies, no Dudes looking for a hookup, just solo fliers doing life on their own, partying as only the truly unattached can, leaving their married friends home to their domesticated evenings of laundry and Seinfeld reruns. 

I’m a big believer in chemistry, but the kind of connection you always hear about, with which DIsney, Harlequin and the Hallmark Channel are obsessed, is the romantic relationship. Love at first sight. I saw him and I knew. One Enchanted Eveniiiiing…. You may see a strannnngerr… (and whatever voice you just heard in your head, you’re right.). A million songs aren’t wrong, there really is some unexplainable thing that happens when certain people meet, and they tie together with some weird invisible unbreakable ribbon, and are simply connected from thence forward.  

The mistake is thinking chemistry is only for romantic relationships. 

I remember first meeting one of my very favorite people. I was at the gym in Tiny Town, and I went up to the desk for something, I don’t remember what it was. What I do remember was that this time, the dour-faced female corpse with the bad orange dye job who was usually at the front desk and who always looked like she was up to something, and that something was meeting with her meth dealer, well, playing her role today instead was a sweet, lovely angel with bright, smart green eyes, asking what she could do for me. She was and is an absolutely beautiful person, inside and out, and we connected immediately with Magic Ribbon, and have been good friends ever since. 

Magic Ribbon can make you perfectly content being single.

You say you’re not “in love”, but oh, yes you are. You are completely smitten with your dearest friends, those whom you choose as your inner circle. And, if your actual relatives are assholes, you can create a much better magic-ribbon family out of these close connections. 

Hollywood blares the trope of romantic in-love relationships until we are all brainwashed that we can’t live without them, film directors whistling nonchalantly whilst sweeping under the carpet the power of platonic in-love relationships, a total disservice because quite honestly, the platonic ones usually outlast the romantic ones. This is a good reason to make sure you don’t ignore those close to you if you acquire a significant other. They will be there if it all blows apart. Think of Friends, that show where they are all connected regardless of who Ross happens to be dating that season. Or any other show in which the friendships far outlast the romantic connections, my favorite being the Golden Girls, four biddies who annoy and love each other, living out their final days embroiled in smartass comments and enduring affection. And Betty White was a fucking genius. 

This is a Magic Ribbon night. 

Until now, my close friends were primarily scant remnants of those I had known from TIny Town. I had wasted far too many nights on Dudes, lingering at the bar wishing that tall guy with the dark spiky hair would pay attention already, rather than accomplishing the more difficult work of investing in myself and making real friends in Big Suburb.

This night is different. 

Because tonight, I know who the hell I am, and what I want, and that little detail changes everything. Say what you will about the Law of Attraction, I can tell you on this evening, the universe came through, and something I hadn’t known I wanted was simply dropped in my lap. 

I stumbled upon my tribe.

We all outlasted the DJ but could finally milk no more out of this night, and this happy girl  hauled my sad looking cold burger and fries home to stick in the microwave, now relegated to a late night snack rather than the dinner it was supposed to have been. I opened the clamshell of now warm soggy fries, head buzzing with wine and remnants of DJ noise, and hopped on Facebook to check out this group. 

I discovered the men and women I met that night were part of a clandestine group, primarily single. I had ventured into singles groups before, once having been invited by a male client who always stood wayyy too close to me when paying his bill (A whole room of guys like him?? Oh hell no.). I even ventured to a few meetups, but could taste  the desperation in the room. These were often overrun by people who were still where I was months ago, desperately unhappy being alone, longing for someone to fill the gap in the self-contentment they had not yet found. The lack of self-love and life purpose was palpable at these events, and I avoided them like three-day old sushi. I scroll quickly through the posts and comments, and scan upcoming events. I know none of these people except the original guy, and the handful of people I was introduced to that night. 

I choose an upcoming event, some sort of glam night. 

Perfect. 

 I had a crazy black Elvira-ish crown, and paired it with a lacy shirt, black leather skirt and heels. Goth glam, works for me. About thirty or so are going to this event. I scroll through those going, but I only recognize  the one guy who I sure hope will be there. Fuck it, I’m going anyway.  I put on all my black shit, set the spiked black tiara on my head, and hobble down the stairs on a pair of black stilettos that should have come with a walker. I totter down to my car, gripping desperately to the railing. Hope they don’t have stairs. Anxiety scuttles through my brain like little crackhead mice, and of course Google decides to take tonight to fuck me over. 

I’m  lost. 

I’m not. 

I’m lost again. 

I’m not again, and I finally wind my way up an ornate driveway to a big, beautiful house. 

Time to take charge. My coronation complete, I send all the little tweaking fear rodents scurrying for cover. I am brave and bold, and no one is going to stop me from meeting these people. 

I knock on the door, but there isn’t an answer, and in my head little frantic mice heads peek out, ready to create panic, but I hear loud voices and know no one can hear my quiet little knocks. Come on, Monica, it’s a PARTY.  I reach for the lever, turn it and pull, and the rodents scurry for my stomach. I ignore it and boldly walk in the door, bejeweled head held high. I walk through the foyer and into the kitchen, packed with people.

 I know no one.

 A few heads turn to look. The mice start to scurry again, but a moment of inspiration hits me, and I yell, “HI! I DON’T KNOW ANY OF YOU.  I’M MONICA!!!”

The rodents poof out of existence in a wisp of smoke. 

Several laugh, and one gentleman comes up to me and says “That was so cool!” 

To this day, I have no idea how I thought of it, but it’s definitely one of the best entrances I’ve ever made. 

A tall, pretty lady with a sassy personality and smart grey eyes is the hostess of these shenanigans, while a friendly beautiful blonde in a funky leather skirt is bouncing around, taking pictures and telling me where to put the crab dip and wine I bought, my humble dowry for joining the tribe. We eat, we drink, we chat, we dance, and throughout this blast of an evening, prominently absent is the usual “singles” sense of looking for a significant other. These people are just here to have a great time… to chat, to connect, to support each other. For once, I am able to relate my weird dating sagas and find out that A. there are a lot of people out there who have left the comfort of an inappropriate significant other to venture out alone, and B. some of their stories are even weirder than mine. 

I wish I could say it were more common to meet up with independent single people who are focused on making their own lives amazing instead of waiting for the Prince Charming white horse rescue, which never happens anyway and even if it does it’s an unemployed George Costanza, beer belly bursting forth from a stained Foreigner shirt relic from 1985 riding a donkey who just shit on the carpet while demanding a sandwich and a roll in the freshly fouled hay. 

Individuals who know who they are, and have their life purpose figured out, and who have a deep and healthy love for themselves, are wildly attractive. And, before any thoughts of well I just don’t look like that pop up, being actually wildly attractive has very little to do with physical appearance, other than it’s pretty obvious when you take care of yourself.  I have seen women who have raided Fort Knox to make sure they have Pamela Anderson boobs, Farrah Fawcett hair, Angelina Jolie lips, Elizabeth Taylor eyebrows, and a Britney Spears nose(did I just create the perfect woman?) yet sit alone at the bar because no one wants to talk to a beautiful shell.

 Honey. 

All of the money in the world at the medi-spa won’t do the inner work of building a life worth living, of being a compassionate wonderful person who builds into the lives of others, who is doing something of value with this gift of life we’ve been given. Nothing external can conceal an empty life. And of course, it goes both ways. I have spent many nights being bothered by some muscled-up pristine-faced Romeo with a vacant head and a full wallet who has absolutely nothing in their heart but does have a spectacular boat they’d really like me to see. This is what produces a Dude or a… _____? I should really figure out an equivalent term for the ladies. 

I don’t even have to worry about offending anyone, such folks can’t be bothered to pick up a book.  

But this inner work isn’t easy. Let’s say somehow you figure yourself out and have a pretty great self-concept really young, like by your early twenties. You can either remain happily single, or sometimes trot down the aisle in your twenties and manage to have 2.5 kids, 1.3 dogs, 2.4 cars, and 0.3 boats, and it all kind of works. Or, you might choose the single life, enjoying thoroughly the freedom to do, go, or fly wherever and whenever you desire, no panic about whether your phone is blowing up because you haven’t thought about your significant other for two hours or the baby just threw up. 

But life is far from perfect, as nearly any Monday morning will prove to you, and most of us fall into another category, in which something messed with self-love in the first place, so we never really figured out who we were and why we are amazing and well worth taking care of. And once you don’t respect yourself, you will be more than happy to climb into someone else’s wheelbarrow and be hauled off into their sunset on their property, destined to a life as wrong for you as a palm tree in Canada, desperately shivering, not even aware there was a perfect sunny life for you in Cancun. Self love is ground zero. The flight attendant holding up the little yellow airbag is right, if you don’t take care of yourself first, you won’t be of any help to anyone. If you give away everything you love in yourself, you have nothing left to respect and to love. But if you protect yourself, and take care of and love yourself, your compassion for you spills over into compassion for others.  You will see others struggle and desire to help them, desire to have them also see the value in themselves.

When you invest in your life and make it amazing, solidly at the steering wheel with a clear destination in mind, you will improve yourself AND everyone and everything around you. The most important person to fall in love with is YOU. Find the good and find the talent and start to build something amazing that is all you. And stay with those who support you and minimize those who don’t, even if they are family. Don’t let anyone stop you from being all of incredible YOU. 

Suffice it to say that at this event, there were an unusually large number of people who seemed to know who the hell they are, beautiful people inside and out, building a life for themselves and aspiring to be better. 

I became quick and solid magic ribbon-friends with several there that night, friends I still have today. Given the point I was at in my own self-development, I was starting to meet some really great people anyway, but meeting an entire group at once put my single life into overdrive. 

I no longer feel like an outsider here. 

Six years after losing everything, I am finally home. 

I am finally me. 

Time to party.