“Passed out.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, seriously! Right in the middle of the first date. Stone drunk. I just left, no idea what they did with the bill!”

“Maybe they taped it to his head.”

We laugh. The sun is hot on my face as I bob on an inflatable pink flamingo. “Yeah, I would talk to my boyfriend, and he wouldn’t remember the conversations. I used to call him Two Drink Joe.” As I relate the story, it dawns on me that there were several men I dated who were income-tax seminar level boring when they were sober. 100% of their personality only showed up when they were drinking, and in a society in which the main social space is taverns, they’re usually drinking when you meet them. It can be very deceiving. “Joe was one drink boring, three drinks asshole. Two drink Joe was the only one I really liked, and he was only around for about an hour before the asshole showed up.”

We are on a lake, and we are making a fun, venting, verbal tour down the road of all the terrible, wild and weird dates we’ve had. The stories do not disappoint. 

“I had a guy who wanted to lick my feet after sweating at Six Flags the entire day”

Ewww….

“My friend dated a guy who had a broken penis.”

WHAAAA???

She relates the story, and I fight the urge to yank out my phone immediately to see if this is really a thing (It is. I do not recommend a Google search.).

“I went to his house, which was already strange, and he started to tell me what tasks he wanted me to do as his new wife. This was the FIRST DATE. It was a hoarder house, and it seemed he was looking for a partner who would clean it up for him…(Honey, RUN! He’s not looking for a partner, he’s looking for his next lampshade!)

Honestly, that girl was lucky to be alive and not under the porch with probably the last thirty-seven dates that guy had. And he was on Match.com! Buyer, beware, indeed.

And that’s just the tip of this bad date iceberg.

We have texted guys for months who wanted to remain virtual, and never, ever, EVER plan a date. 

We have been dating and had someone completely Casper into the ether with no explanation, sometimes after months of hopeful progress.

All of the women have had a guy turn from Jekyll to Hyde after we spurned their advances, throwing out lots of expletives starting with the letters B and C until we had to block them on every single possible method of virtual communication that exists. If they knew the language, they would probably stand at the end of the driveway casting smoke signals… 

B….

I…..

T….

C….

H.

 We have waited, waited, waited, languishing over slowly warming Chardonnay while he’s totally forgotten to show up, or worse, decided not to show up deliberately. 

We have turned into skeletons festooned with cobwebs waiting for a text or phone call. 

We have created a Mount Fuji of clothing on our beds, madly in search of juuusst the right outfit to entice our date, whilst having no idea if he’s someone we want to entice in the first place.

We have picked up the bill as he sheepishly says he “forgot” his wallet (Okay, guys, I am fine with alternating paying, and mistakes happen, but PLEASE don’t invite us to Mr. McPricey’s Kobe Steak And Caviar Lounge and not be absolutely sure you have a payment method. Seriously. You WILL be doing dishes.)

And Every. Single. One. of the guys has more than one story, and sometimes several, about going to meet some Beyonce/Farrah/Sofia lookalike who turned out to be more of a Whoopi/Susan Boyle/John Candy. I know, don’t judge a book by its cover, but no one is happy thinking they bought the Kama Sutra and opening the cover to find The Old Man and the Sea. Filters have become the art of the con, and the deception is endless, from a 67-year old without a single crease, to bizarre animal features that render the face unrecognizable, to eyes wider than a surprised Disney princess, and of course, that old chestnut, the camera angle that would flatter a manatee. 

At least the guy in front of a bare lightbulb holding a fish is being honest. 

Some of us have even stolen out of bathroom windows in restaurants. It just occurred to me now that this may be the story on the other side of the person who got left at the bar. 

We relate stories of narrow escapes, weird fetishes and odd personalities like we are WWII buddies who shared time in the trenches. Not totally inaccurate. 

I think there’s a pattern with dating in which if it goes off the rails, the women are called crazy and the men are called players. It’s a total generalization, but I wonder sometimes if there is some truth to it as I hear the umpteenth story about a guy who texts every other month, hey, beautiful! (translation: I’m horny and never bothered deleting your number, and don’t quite remember a Cindy, but she sounds like someone with an available cooch), or how guys can tell you about the crazy lady who jammed his phone with 84 text messages after a single date. I have known women who spent hours composing lengthy emails to a man who already clearly stated he wasn’t interested, and unless you want to be viewed as flakier than the General Mills plant, you need to stop. Honey, he’s not interested, he’s not coming back, and your twelve-page email will only serve to make him not only even more uninterested, but also convinced you’re also batshit crazy. 

DON’T DO IT. 

All of these things were to find that Other, that One who was supposed to complete you, the ONE I, at this point in the story, have purposely decided not to hunt down any longer, having put my own dreams in this truck and having kicked everyone else out of the driver’s seat. I’ve been cruising down life’s highway doing 90 while blasting the guitar solo at the end of Goodbye Stranger since I left Datesville, and I have no intention of heading back anytime soon. 

And as we all share war stories on that sunny day in Lake Big Suburb, I have an epiphany. 

WE ARE ALL SINGLE.

We are all single. Every one of us on this blue green marble are fucking SINGLE!! Even in the best of well-connected marital bliss, you are apart a good deal of the time for a myriad of reasons, from work to travel to whatever else may come your way in which it doesn’t really work to have your significant other present (although I can tell you personally that yes you CAN have your partner with you in the changing room at Victoria’s Secret. I assure you, Lorissa never had a better sales day.) 

And we have all known the awkwardness of a couple who just couldn’t stand to be apart to the point that things got weird for everyone else involved (looking at you, Yoko. No, you don’t belong on the album.).

We are born single, and remain so until our first awkward kiss, what is it that changes in us that makes it seem so difficult to remain happy by ourselves? 

For women, I think this has a lot to do with the embedded Puritanical view that a women’s sole purpose is to be a wife and mother, which renders an incorrect Venn diagram in which the circle of mother/wife completely encompasses the circle of you, when it should be a smaller intersecting oval. A choice, a timely decision, far preferable to be made after knowing oneself and setting one’s own direction. Hey, I’ve decided I’m doing this thing here in life. Going my way? Let’s reproduce. Something like that. But not essential, and contrary to the most extreme churches I was in, most absolutely NOT the sum purpose of any female here on this planet. 

This is still strong enough in our culture that many women never realize they never figured out their real purpose until they are suddenly facing a devastating depression as the last child waves from the step of a totally overpriced and ridiculously overdone Gothic building. Mom reluctantly backs out, the now-empty SUV carrying a woman with an equally empty heart. Or, the women I’ve known who lose their husband to death or divorce and have no idea what a 1040-EZ is. You need to build your own life purpose, learn your own life skills, Create Your Own Adventure.

In the case of men, there is often a level of expectation to carry on a certain family business, or type of career, or raising a family (“ So… are you dating anyone yet? Married yet? Children yet? When you gunna get me them grandchildren??”) getting tied down in a mental family straitjacket to the expectations of parents or other well-meaning instruments of destruction known as relatives. 

There is no rescue from any of this in another person. 

This is why it’s so critical to become your own best friend. 

Last night was my birthday, and though I had been thrown an incredible party the weekend before, I felt a little weird being alone on the actual date.

Weird, but good, because I’m not ever alone. I’m always in the company of my closest friend.  

Me. 

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely treasure every single friend and good relative I have, and have precious wonderful close relationships, but I now know this:

No matter who you are, no matter how involved a significant other relationship you have, you HAVE TO LEARN HOW TO BE ALONE.  

When you sit with yourself, and get past the lonely and into contemplation, you will discover who you are. What you like, your tastes, desires, and direction, all uncolored by anyone else when you are flying solo. As you get to know yourself, there are things you will love, and keep, and things you will want to change. You’re the boss of you, create what you want. 

Think. Contemplate. Figure out who you are without outside influence. Learn. Practice. Study. Sit with yourself until you know who the hell you are. 

I don’t get lonely much because when I am alone I consider it the Universe’s way of saying it’s time for me to work on myself. 

And if you work on yourself long enough, you become amazing, and amazing people are ALWAYS a draw. 

And then, before you know it, you are no longer alone. 

How ironic that the loneliest of us all is the person who cannot handle being alone, while those most comfortable with themselves tend to be surrounded by others…

So, one day, while on a rare hike with my daughter, who would call herself the “indoorsy” type and requires sunscreen the level of sheet-of-paper, something very exciting happens. 

I would have to say the proposal didn’t exactly come out of nowhere…

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. 

Smack.. Smack… smack

My feet hit the pavement in time. Running again. Thinking too hard. About what I read that morning, about the implications. Trees and pavement blur, a wash of greens and greys bleed together as my eyes flood. 

Is it really possible this was all my fault? 

I remember two types of medicine growing up. One was a spectacularly artificial looking bright blue syrup, I’m not even really sure what it was for… Bright blue, though. It tasted like heaven on a sunny day, and I concocted endless mysterious coughs and wheezes to see if I could somehow fool my mom (a nurse who wouldn’t allow a stay home from school unless fluid was erupting from our bodies in some way) into taking out the bottle of magical elixir so I could taste divinity once again. 

Oh, it didn’t actually do anything, as far as I could tell. No high, no funny feeling, no magic carpet ride to Shangri-La on the beams of a rainbow. The ones your mother gives you, indeed, don’t do anything at all, right? But it was incredibly delicious, and a good thing it was locked up, or it’s possible I would have blue-syruped myself right into the ER. 

Except I wouldn’t be in the ER, because as I mentioned, it didn’t DO anything. 

No, if I’m looking for actual results, what I want is Nyquil. So does everyone. Funny thing about Nyquil. Some genius at corporate headquarters decided the best possible flavor to attempt to conceal a medicine as bitter as Aunt Mildred’s vendetta against ex-husband #3, was black licorice. You’re going with anise, then? Well, oh-kay, a flavor that invariably makes any most-hated-flavor list. Huh. At least maybe you’ll make it a pleasant color, a nice pink like tummy medicine… Nope, toxic-waste green. Gross. And yes, I know it also comes in that red color that makes maraschino cherries look natural in comparison, and somehow that “cherry” flavor is equally awful. I mean, you have to work overtime to screw up cherry. Yet in spite of the moronic decisions on behalf of the Nyquil marketing team, EVERYONE buys this shitty tasting concoction, because as disgusting as it is, it works, and we all know it.

This is the Nyquil chapter. 

All along, I had been searching for the answers to get my life back and make it amazing, a perspiration-ridden dig by a crazy prospector searching for gold. 

But I didn’t like what I found this time, what I was considering as I ran down the road that day, the concept that haunted my thoughts and chased me down the path that sunny afternoon. 

It was all my fault. Well, at least some of it. Possibly a lot of it. 

You read that correctly. Much of the responsibility for the last 95 chapters lies at my own feet. I could come up with reasons why it wasn’t, why I was stuck in a circumstance or things were out of my control, this happened to me, that happened to me, yet I repeatedly stumble on the same concept, a pothole in the road I’m hitting every single time even though I know damn well exactly where it is. 

It’s nasty medicine, and I want to spit it out. 

I’m going through the difficult process of accepting 100% responsibility for my role in everything that happened. I have to. In order to take charge of my own life, I have to be responsible for my own part. Denying responsibility is denying my own decisions, and relinquishing control. 

Is it really true? Did I cause what happened? Did I somehow make myself a victim? 

I mentally revisit…

This mindset started when I was quite young, youngest of 8 and not really in control of what happened to me…

But when did I start believing I was a victim, start blaming the world for what was happening to me?

Before I start into this, I need to say that this in no way excuses any perpetrator, or makes them not responsible for what they did, but in most circumstances, there was a level of responsibility on my own part. The tough medicine bit is that by taking responsibility, then and only then do we cease being a victim. Then I can change my response, and determine to do things differently. I’m the one who gets up in the morning, I’m the one choosing the path I walk. I can say of the things that happened, it was all their fault, but even in the worst that happened, I have to say that I voluntarily went with my abuser. I thought I had to, to save face, but was that really true? 

It was not! He did NOT drag me to his vacant house. There were two others present when we left for that fateful basement who would have likely said something if he did. I could have left. I was worried I would be unpopular with the boys in the neighborhood. And there it is! I mentally revisit this and reframe it:  No! I’m not going with you anywhere, are you nuts? I’m going home, I don’t care what you tell my parents, I’m NOT GOING WITH YOU. and I could have fought for my life and my innocence. 

Before you say I shouldn’t be thinking that way, this is shaming the victim… it really isn’t. None of this excuses what he did, that was still a heinous crime and worthy of the absent punishment it should have carried, but taking 100% responsibility for MY ROLE in what happened means I can revisit, forgive myself for the boneheaded idea of walking on my own two feet to this creep’s house instead of simply walking another direction and going home. I could have run away at any point, actually, and it would have changed everything. And now when I think of this, I have it reframed in my mind, running back home to read my treasured books, or playing in the backyard, climbing trees, whatever. 

What this changes is my understanding that this is very unlikely to happen again, because I addressed the problem. There will ALWAYS be creepers out there, 100% we will come across someone who really should be in jail, but isn’t… so are you going to go with them, or fight for your life? 

100% responsibility means accepting my role and realizing that the next time someone attempts to abuse me in some way, I can take these two feet and march right out the door. I can kick, bite and scream. I can shoot, clobber and defend. And now my responsibility has given me a new view on the whole situation. And places me in the driver’s seat.

Well, what about my ill-fated marriage? Where I was stuck because the church doesn’t allow divorce? 

Oh, my role in this is easy. I revisit and take responsibility for the fact that I cared more about what forty or so church people thought than my own precious life. Listened to what my fiance was saying about what was in the Bible instead of doing my own research, myself. Ignoring that sick feeling in my stomach. It could be argued that we all do that at times, but it doesn’t excuse me from responsibility. I could have gone to the courthouse myself at any point with 250$ and a pen and ended that bullshit right there, right then. But instead I waited 23 loooong years. I could have even done a dramatic escape from the altar “NO I DON’T WANT TO MARRY YOU!!” and made a Julia roberts sprint for the door, hijacked the limo (Well, I would have had to call a limo company because we didn’t have one, but it would have been worth it) and peeled straight to Las Vegas to do something totally illegal and morally disgraceful, leaving my fancy white wedding underthings on a sage bush somewhere for the crackheads to find, but I chose not to. 

Yes, this was a conscious choice, and this is where the responsibility comes in.  

I acquiesced. I submitted. I gave in. I TOOK THE EASY WAY OUT instead of taking care of myself. I was being lazy with my life, instead of protecting it and aggressively pursuing what was in my heart, what I wanted instead of what this guy wanted. 

In conceding to what others wanted, I lost me. My directions. My map. Dora has better directions than I do (Where’s Boots when you need him?).

I mentally revisit all of it, taking 100% responsibility, and accepting there were things I could have done, all along the way. 

I revisit the college question. Yeah, I put my husband through college, then when we moved back he said we couldn’t afford for me to go. 

Okay, so really, Monica, if you had just driven there, signed up and paid the bill, what was he gonna do, drag you out of class? 

This is getting difficult, looking back at all of the things that weren’t obvious at the time, but looking back through the lens of 100% responsibility, were a lot more under my control than I want to admit. 

Much of the teaching I was receiving helped this along, just trust in God and everything will be okay, relinquishing responsibility and denying the need for action. This teaching was so deeply embedded, I still struggle to take action to this day, making sure I don’t just assume God is going to fix everything while I ignore my dirty floors. It doesn’t happen, I am telling you the floors stay dirty until you take responsibility and wash the damn floor. I have this guilty pleasure of watching  Hoarders, and some of the worst episodes feature insanely religious people standing up to their knees in debris, stating faith that the good Lord will keep the 50 years of newspapers in the attic from crushing them….hallelujah!

And the Dudes… oh dear. 

Did I not have the capability to walk out of these rotten situations at any time? 

But noooooo, I just stayed there, hoping things would get better without any action to ensure it would. 

Situation after situation is revisited in my head, a tour of things I tolerated, allowed, and didn’t stand up against. 

But, see, the beauty in this all is that once you take 100% responsibility, you can learn the lessons and you possess all of yourself, the good, the bad, the ugly… the great decisions and the horrible, and looking at the past with a more accurate sense of what I could have done differently informs my future and now I have a much better self-concept, as well as an idea of exactly how to proceed. 

It gets worse. 

I need to go back and forgive, otherwise I will be chained to these people forever. And in a somewhat painful twist, thank some of them mentally for their role, whether it was meant for good or bad, some of them really did what turned out to be a huge favor. 

Thank you, DX, for your understanding and for two of the most incredible and beloved children I ever could have hoped for. 

Thank you, Pastor Strict, for showing me how I never want to live. 

Thank you, Pastor Jock, for ejecting me from what would eventually have been a dead-end job picked apart weekly by the sanctimonious assholes at that church. 

Thank you, Pastor Almost, for ending a career that was severely limiting me as a person.

Thank you, Dudes, for teaching me all about the men I don’t want. 

And after all of this, I self-soothe. I hug myself, forgive myself. I tell myself it’s okay, I order food from the bar across the street in a nice comfort-myself-with-a-burger move, throw on a sweatshirt, and head over. It’s Thursday, and I should be able  to sneak in there quietly, fetch my food and be back on my couch in minutes. 

This…is exactly what doesn’t happen. 

“Oh my GOD you know everyone!”

I am attempting to point out to my dear friend there’s no way this is physically possible, but I choke on my words like they’re three day old egg salad as I come to the stunning realization that I did it. 

The last five years in Big Suburb is a sudden flash through my mind, a This Was Your Whole Entire Life reel you always hear about that’s evidently mandatory viewing in life’s final moments …right there as I’m standing in my little local bar where so much of the story unfolded. You’ve come a long way, baby. I stop short of popping a mile-long Virginia Slim from its pack (a reference you only understand if you once negotiated the buttons of an 8-track player. Hi, Boomer.).

I was shaking in my spike-heeled boots when I moved to Big Suburb with a fork and a toothbrush, newly divorced and careerless, having fled a town that hated me for leaving my husband.  I knew no one except Prepdude and his limited band of friends, whom I lost when I broke up with him. I had no job, no friends, no life. 

But standing there tonight in that bar with my friend, I realized I had a business, a blog, a book, my bands, my friends, and myself. I have a life! She’s alliiiiiiveee!! I even have the yellow Jeep. And the best part about being alone? NO ONE else is directing my life and my decisions, and NO ONE can stand in my way. This is full bore ahead, buckle up kids, we’re going on the fastest ride of your life, not responsible for the loss of personal items.  And I do know a lot of people now. I have rebuilt a life to order, exactly the way I wanted it. Okay, mostly the way I wanted it. No private island or Cessna yet, but hey, gimme some more time, and…

While my mind is taking its little detour down Memory Lane, my friend is staring at me, puzzled, head cocked like a confused pug waiting for me to respond. My brain finally re-engages with the now.

I smile. “Ha! I guess I do know a lot of people!” and carry on, hugging and chatting with the friends I have made in my new life.

 Some Dudes are out tonight, ever prowling. They… are mostly where I left them, always pushing that mental wheelbarrow to see if they can convince the cute blonde at the bar to get in and consummate their bogus dead-end ride. I stand as straight and tall as I can. I will no longer crumple this form to fit the confines of a barrow. The Dudes have been relocated to the friendzone for me, no longer a threat. It takes two to tango in the Dudegame, and I left that dance floor a while back. Monica’s Smoking Hot Dance Party is much more fun, and I don’t care what anyone thinks as I jump on the tables at MY party. 

But about the Dudes tonight…The passage of time is showing its wear.  Some have given up the wheelbarrow, and finally settled down with a significant other. Is she trapped like I was? I hope not, but that’s not my business. No longer my circus, and I’m definitely not feeding those monkeys. I’m still friends with a few, those who genuinely did bring something other than the offer of their nice warm bed  to the table. I have known absolutely wonderful men all along with whom I have deep, caring platonic relationships, and whom I would take a bullet for in an instant. I value them, and my girlfriends, so much more now that I can see clearly. Romantic relationships often end, friendships are much more likely to endure, Golden Girls living out their days in joyful single hilarity until the credits roll. 

Or at least that’s how it should be. I have seen women blow off their steadfastly loyal friends the minute a hot new flavor of the day breezes into town, there to fill every waking hour. They vanish, committed 24/7 to whatever it is Prince Charming has in mind, tossed about on the fickle winds of infatuation. Then, when the new-car smell wears off and Prince Charming turns out to be Chester Nutbag, faithful friends having long been abandoned, they are left lonely and scrambling for anyone who will still talk to them and hold their now empty hand through the crisis. It’s not a fun place to be, and illustrates the importance of keeping your non-romantic relationships well fed and burped.  

The friend I’m with tonight was my best friend after high school. I had lost contact when she left for college, only to discover decades later she lives less than an hour away from my place in Big Suburb. We are like two reunited otters, and it seems like less than a minute passed since she was sitting with me at the Perkins on campus and stealing all my fries. She’s right, in a way, though. I guess I didn’t really realize the number of people I had connected with here in Big Suburb. 

I’m an off-the-charts extrovert who learned early on to treat others like they are the most important person in the world, and I do believe that treating people really, really well is not only the right thing to do, but creates connection. Much of loneliness happens because of selfishness. Obsession with your own life, your own drama, your own self, drives people away. Shoot me, but it’s true. If you are busy helping others, helping them feel good about themselves, helping them with at least something, you will naturally connect, you will volunteer, you will be the first to make the phone call, you will reach out, and touch, and encourage, and it will be returned to you, yes it will!

Those determined to help others are rarely lonely, as there is never a lack of people who welcome a kind word or a helping hand. And it may seem odd that I’m talking about others in a book that is all about finding myself, but you can’t really care for others if you haven’t learned to love yourself first. The cute brunette Southwest flight attendant droning the same repeated words down the aisle is right, you can’t put the little yellow oxygen mask on someone else if you can’t breathe. It all starts with loving yourself and getting yourself in the position where you have something to give. When you truly love and care about yourself, and when you own your own life, it naturally spills out onto those around you. I feel abundant, I feel loved. Where can I dump all this extra love? This is what it feels like to own your life and to love yourself. It naturally flows to others, and benefits everyone around when you are your best self. And, yes, it’s magnetic, and you won’t find yourself alone, and if you do, you won’t mind, because YOU are fucking awesome. Yayy, a night with me! I’m amazing! Not kidding, this is my life now. And I just want to share the love. 

When I wind up alone and unhappy now, I view it as the Universe’s way of telling me there’s something I need to work on in myself. Why am I feeling down? What can I evaluate in me to make my life better? Am I taking good care of my body, my mind, my spirit, my life? What can I change to improve things? There is always life maintenance to be done, and then return to others even better. I am aspiring to be a Value Added person; if I am in your life, I will actively be adding value to it. If I am asking about your kids, I genuinely do care and want to hear how they are doing. I love people and I care about people.  What I hadn’t learned before is that this is a treasure to be lavished on the good people of the world, not dumped into the bottomless pit of vampires who suck the life out of you or wasted on players who just want to take advantage of a good heart and see how many home-cooked meals you will make for them before you crack. 

My big lesson was that I needed to protect myself. But now I’m residing in an iron-gated fortress with a moat full of crocodiles. I’m reveling in my own secret garden, and I only allow in value-added people, those who return the love I pour out. I add value to their lives, and they add value to mine. It’s a great way to live.

  Life returns to you what you give, and I have … to make a phone call. 

The next morning I hit the number: Ring, ring, ring. A man’s voice… “hello?” 

“This is Monica…” my standard greeting. 

Uh oh. 

But wait, no. Before you get worried, this isn’t a Dude I’m calling.  This is my life coach. 

“Awesome! What can I do for you?”

“Well… Remember when you asked if I could be happy the rest of my life even if I knew I would never have a significant other?” 

“…yes?…”

“You know what? My life is really full now. I have to thank you for your role in this, but I have my business, my book I’m working on, the bands I’m in, the friends I’ve made… I have my life back. I own my life now, and I really love myself and feel great. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, actually happier than most of the people I meet. And… I… think I would be just fine if I lived the rest of my life having never met a significant other. “

And even as I say the words, the final piece falls into place. I am a whole person, I can feel it. The jigsaw is complete, and I can see the picture clearly, right down to every last piece in the blue sky that took forever to put together, oddly shaped pieces all the same identical frustrating shade. But I finally got it. I feel settled, and peaceful. 

Everywhere I walk, I envision the positive energy radiating off of me into other’s lives, like a wake from a massive speedboat sending everyone else on the water bouncing on bumps of spreading joy. You can believe in positive energy as a spreading force, or not, but I challenge you to spend an afternoon with me and not feel buoyed by the positive energy. It’s contagious. 

I have journeyed a long time by myself. I have changed… I am finally the woman who met me in that meadow long ago, when I was scrunched into a wheelbarrow I had no business being in. I have become her, the person I had wanted to be, the person I always knew resided within me, but didn’t know how to access. And every day I become more of this goddess-lady, more immune to the criticisms, more surrounded by amazing people whom I love and support and who love and support me in return. I am real, I am whole, I am Monica. 

And I am ready to kick ass. 

*if you have no idea who the Woman in the Field is, please go back and review chapters 79 and 80. Clue: I have become the woman from that chapter. No, silly, not the one in the wheelbarrow, the other one. You’re welcome. 

 I DID IT!!

I did it. I finally fucking did it. 

I blocked the love of my life. 

And exited the bedroom, and simply went back to watching giggly YouTube videos of  human ridiculousness with my offspring. It was a bittersweet combination of triumph and sadness. In the back of my mind lurks swirling thoughts… did I do the right thing? Maybe I should unblock him. Maybe it would have worked. I absolutely must not go down that overused road that has rekindled many a relationship that should have died the deadliest of dead deaths, What if something happened to him? I hope he’s okay. Maybe I should text just to see if he’s okay.  As if the person on the other end of that message is going to say Oh, honey! I was only mostly dead but now that you texted me, I’m going to live!! Let’s get married … and you see how ridiculous it really is? No, you don’t need to save your ex, please stop trying. He’s fine.

I do exactly none of these things. I finally have a headstone and epitaph on this relationship: Here Lies Monica and Jack. If She Had Stayed, She’d Be On Crack…or something else ending in ack. What I know for sure is while I was with Jackdude, I drank enough alcohol to pickle a platoon, which is not going to help me achieve anything other than slurred speech and a desperate breakfast of Coke and Egg McMuffins. I absolutely do NOT want to live out the rest of my days drunk and fearing saying the wrong thing will cause my significant other to abruptly vanish. It was bad, and it needed to expire.

It is difficult to articulate the magnitude of the boost in self empowerment, self confidence, and self esteem I gained the moment I hit that little red BLOCK button on my phone, but it was palpable and lasting. It was like a formerly 300 pound dieter wizzing their cart right past all the garbage food aisles, or an alcoholic pitching all their hard-earned drink chips into the trash. It was a shopping junkie waltzing right past Neiman Marcus without so much as a glance at their fabulous shoe collection, or a gambling addict turning down Caesar’s Palace’s kindly offer of a frequent flier free room. It was a sex addict cuddling up alone in bed with a good book instead of a partner (no lube required!), or a crackhead proudly marching past their old haunts, smiling broadly with beautiful, sparkling white new teeth. 

And yet, there is something I don’t want you to miss. You know the last paragraph, the one where you think I’m going back to him because I’m still so in love? I think it’s important to point out that ALL of those things are things I deeply felt. I WAS crazy in love with him. I did believe he was my soulmate. It was one of the hardest things I ever did, that single touch on the glass of my phone indicating I was cutting off my only link to him, for good. And I knew from previous experience that he was absolutely not going to show up at my house or hunt me down. My final action was the stake in the heart, a silver bullet, the double-tap to ensure that the zombie stayed dead this time, and didn’t come lurking around the corner to jump-scare me any more. 

I did receive a text message about a year later that I’m almost positive was him, checking from someone else’s phone to see if he really indeed had been blocked. It was from a random number, but the greeting was all too familiar. After I said who is this?  the mystery shopper on the other end simply said … Wally. Yeah, I don’t know a Wally. And once I stated this, the other end went silent. Which I suppose is perfect, and somehow suited the demise of the relationship. Vanished again, poof into the ether, and just like that, I went on with my day. 

When I finally cut off Jackdude, something new was cemented in place within me. Each day that went by after the Big Chop, I became prouder of myself. I had passed the test. Turning away the thing I thought I wanted most when it was staring me right in the face gave me a strength I never knew I had. 

But you know what’s weird? 

As my fascination with simply living my own life grew, so did the list of Dudes that popped their heads out of the woodwork, a virtual Whack-A-Male of Dudes gone by. 

Was just thinking about you. 

Remember that time when we… 

Hi

Hey! 

Hello

… the text messages from old fading memories pop up, dust bunnies under a once inhabited bed. At this point, they just remind  me of  how much I have changed. Some are a novelty. For some reason, Kinkdude keeps messaging about once a month. For a while, I toyed with this, curious about why on earth a guy would bother texting someone so regularly when they clearly have no intention of getting together. Eventually, when I would receive his random text hi stranger! I’d go into NInja mode and instantly say, Hi! When do you want to meet? which abruptly ended the conversation every time. It makes me wonder how much time would be saved if we just would do this in dating. It would render most compulsive texters paralyzed, and catfishing impossible. 

But such is the life of me being single and having dated all the Dudes. Even Youngdude comes back for a second chance. I think he contacted me because he was frustrated with his current appropriately aged relationship… I counseled him through, elder that I am, and encouraged him to stay with her. I think they are married now. 

The Dude parade continues, but I have left the party. I have a few streamers, plastic Oriental Trading Company beads, and stale candy left over, but I’m no longer present and available. 

I’m just a spectator now. I just watch everyone else in the shitshow, but I left the shit, and the show, behind. I still go out, but my interest in meeting a significant other is nonexistent. It’s wayyy more fun now that I’m not looking, now that I’m being balls-out Monica, no apologies and no changes just because some guy happens to want some certain stupid whatever. I finally enjoy being in my own skin, and am living out loud, louder, loudest, you better plug your ears. And, as I settle into being me and trusting my own judgment, now when I see that cute guy at the bar, my mind goes straight to you have no idea what issues are going on over there, what kind of hot mess is hiding under that pretty veneer. And I go on having a blast with my friends. 

And, I quite honestly am too busy writing my book, building my business, and rocking everyone’s face off with the best music I can create to even think about Dudes anymore. I am living my best life and wake up every day with my favorite person in bed. 

Me. 

I am my own best friend and counselor now, and when I look in the mirror, reflected is a changed woman. I am content by myself. I had never realized in all of the years I searched for that perfect partner, that it would turn out to be me. 

I remember when Whitney Houston first belted out The Greatest Love of All. I was deep in the conservative church, and known mostly as Pastor DX’s wife. I heard the song and was deeply offended at its content. How self serving! How narcissistic! 

I know better now, and the truth is that loving yourself is something you have to do before you can really love anyone else. You have to come to terms with that person in the mirror, and if you are disappointed with that person, you change what you need to change until you admire and respect that person. In a world full of things we cannot control, we absolutely do have control over what we do with this precious body, soul, and spirit we have been given. And the more I build myself, improve myself, take on new challenges, and become the best me I possibly can, the better everything around me becomes. 

I order new things for my bedroom, lots of pink that represents me, and laugh that no Dude would ever allow his shared bedroom to look like this. I don’t care, of course. Dudes are no longer a part of my life plan. 

I redecorate the house for me. I buy clothes that I like. Sorry, Prepdude, no more alligator shirts. I far prefer the alligator stiletto boots.

I still miss Jackdude sometimes, but my life is so full it crowds thoughts of him away. I’m crowding the zombies out with love, with wanting to do something more significant with my life than finding some Dude to “complete” me. Fuck that. I AM complete. 

The best relationships I have observed are when two complete individuals meet and fall in love, and stay complete people, with their own lives and interests. Healthy relationships aren’t very Hollywood, they are real, and mutual, and dependent on two strong individuals, not a forlorn Scarlett O’Hara calling on her dear Rhett to fix her half-baked shell of a personality. Now that I have no need for external completion, having finished this DIY project myself, the scales have fallen away from my eyes (that one’s for the Bible geeks out there) and I can see around me the extreme codependency, the desperation, the people, men and women, seeking a wheelbarrow they can climb in so they can avoid finding themselves. 

And now my heart aches for those caught in the trap, having their lives pushed around while time ticks by, each moment irretrievable. I want to help them, 

And I have come to a realization. 

 I need to text my coach. 

Hey…how are you doing?

Hi…who is this?

Jackdude, hi!

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! 

He left me. Twice. 

Abandoned like a two-day-old sandwich, pitched aside to melt in a puddle of separated mayonnaise and pickle juice. 

His abrupt exit was a power outage in my life, black ink overtaking the brilliant light that was once present. No communication, no explanation. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. The second time, I was so caught up in him being back, so excited about being reunited that I never brought up the important questions about why he walked out in the first place… then he redacted before I even had the chance to ask.  

And yet here’s Joe Third Chance. This rotting corpse. This decrepit zombie, ambling slowly back into my life. Maggots crawl from vacant eye sockets, limbs hang on by a thread. He is totally stinking up my inbox. How does he even remember my name? He left me! He ditched me! This fucking bastard broke my heart. And then broke it again. 

How am I doing? HOW AM I DOING?!

The man is deranged. Crazy. Psychopathic. SADISTIC. 

I text back:

What the exact cinnamon toast fuck is the matter with you? Do you seriously think you are just going to waltz back in the door I should have shut and deadbolted with a Doberman standing sentry? Do you remember walking out on me? Twice? Do you really think you can give me the complete silent treatment for literal months and now act like nothing happened? Are you out of your  mind? Are you just coming back to stick the knife in a little deeper? Why on God’s green Earth are you contacting me after you already stated, twice, that you were worried I was going to cheat on you, something I have never done and never would do? You already established you don’t want to see me so why the hell are these words sitting here on my phone staring me in the face? Do you want to see how much pain you can cause? WHAT KIND OF DIABOLICAL CRAZY PSYCHOTIC MOTHERFUCKER ARE YOU??!!

Okay, that’s what I WANT to text. What I actually text is this:

why are you contacting me

I honestly can’t imagine what possible reason he could have for bubbling up out of nowhere, a faulty sewer line spewing forth communication after months of silence. But he does have a reason. His little idea is an insulting slap in the face.  

He wants to give me money. 

You read that right. Mr. Hero thinks he’s going to save the day, rescue me from my business being shut down. It’s no secret that my line of work has been deemed “unnecessary”, which is super fun for my self esteem, and my wallet. 

The shutdown brought back memories of a question posed when I was in middle school. You have a lifeboat that can sustain only seven people, you have ten. Who gets to live? And of course, you’re deciding between doctors, scientists, farmers, and a hairdresser. I’m not super optimistic about my chances. I might as well visit a roulette wheel and bet on pink. 

Well, Jackdude is an engineer and gets to stay in the lifeboat, while I am pitched overboard with an unceremonious splash. He was crowned Worthy Of Continuing To Work by the powers that be, and has plenty of money coming in. He always did have a healthy six-figure income, heavy drinking notwithstanding. I have no idea how he pulls off this little hat-trick, but he’s been doing it forever. 

This sucks. So the guy who dumped me twice is returning now, when I’m at my weakest, to offer me some of his bags of money. I feel humiliated. My cheeks burn, knowing that I really could use any money I can get. I’m rapidly exhausting my resources, and I have kids who still require some level of responsibility and care. 

I can’t do it. There is no way. I would live in a tent before accepting money from him. In January. In the Himalayas. 

Yet here I am having this stupid text conversation wth him. So, I ask him why he’s contacting me now…

Things have changed… I got another DUI. 

Yep. That’s what he said. 

If any of you readers  have a single solitary idea whatsoever as to why getting another DUI constitutes a text message to your old girlfriend about how you want to pay her bills, I am listening. I never did figure this one out, it’s a question for the ages. Like hot dog buns coming in 8 while hot dogs are sold in 10, why monosyllabic is such a long word, and why Target insists on designing women’s clothing only appropriate for Laura Ingalls Wilder or a prison inmate. 

The text conversation continues. He feels badly for me, he knows this is hard for me, he wants to help me, bla bla bla. After a while of this, I weary of the lengthy text conversation, and I stupidly take the bait, and finally press the doomsday button. 

CALL.  

The minute he answers, I am sucked in. The jovial demeanor, the disarmingly humble tone, the contagious laugh. We instantly reconnect. I genuinely loved this man. We chat for a while, and I dig in. I ask why he left the second time. I told him I felt used. He said he had been with someone who cheated on him, so when I said something questionable, he panicked and left. Understandable, I guess. Is it? He said he was sorry. He was delightful on the phone, we talked for an hour and a half. He explained everything he had done, and then some. 

I explained why I couldn’t accept money from him. There’s just no way. He hurt me beyond belief. The scars have barely begun to heal, and I can’t feel beholden to the person who was once my emotional captor. 

I actually think this is a common mistake to make, from toxic partners to toxic friends or even toxic parents. They swoop in with an offer of a place to stay, a down payment on a house, an extra car given, or even just outright money. It seems harmless enough, but the strings attached become chains that imprison, and you are now mentally bound to them. They can lord this over you forever, there is no expiration date for them reminding you how much you “needed” them. It allows controllers to stay in power. 

 I am all too familiar with this bait-and-switch, having seen it repeatedly in family situations in the church. Ha! I did learn something after all. 

As much as I would love the thousands he is offering me, it is blood money and I won’t do it. I will struggle along in the open water until I find a piece of driftwood and swim to shore. I have to make this work, and make this work by myself, somehow.  He insists that maybe at some point in the future he could help, and I tell him I’ll think about it. He says he’s worried about me. 

He is warm, caring and wonderful. We talk, we laugh, we connect. I feel that old desire rising, the comfort of the connection with another person, the feeling of home.  I have found my soulmate, and I get the sense that maybe we can work this out. Maybe it will all be okay. 

We finish up our conversation, with sweet platitudes and his assurances that we will be talking much, much more. We are reconnected at last, and will eventually be riding his Harley into the sunset. Well, when he gets his license back, anyway.  

We say a lengthy goodbye. 

I’m smiling. 

I hear my daughter “Mom, are you done yet?” in the next room. 

“Just a minute,” 

I look at the phone in my hand , conversation ended. 79 minutes. 

He was my everything. The One. He took good care of me, I never spent a dime when I was with him. He opened every door, told me I was beautiful, did every charming thing you could ever think of that a man could do. 

I click on his number and open up Add Contact. I had taken his name out before. I type his name in carefully, and hit Add, so the number is attached to his name. 

I sit for a while, thinking about the wonderful times together. I anticipate the cuddle time we are going to have…long late nights over his Jack and my Chardonnay, talking endlessly about everything as he gazes into my brown eyes with his beautiful blues as I get lost in those pools of pale ice, as he laughs that contagious beautiful laugh, as I fall asleep in his arms, never to be alone again… And I won’t screw it up this time. I’ll do better, I’ll make sure I never do or say anything to make him suspect me of anything wrong. I’ll be the most faithful, wonderful, loving partner to him, and I’ll be very careful not to trigger his pain. I can’t wait to be in his arms again. 

I continue to the next screen. 

BLOCK NUMBER? 

I tap YES. 

I have to stay silent.   

I crouch in the corner, tall walls of hedge surrounding me. This has to be a dream, who the hell can afford this much boxwood? Much less hire the help to sculpt it into a maze when you can barely find someone to install a deck correctly? This would explain why you only see boxwood mazes in the movies (Okay, fine. There’s one in Italy. Shut up and read the story.) I can hear the Minotaur, but I absolutely must rest for a minute, catch my breath. He’s around a few bends yet, his guttural noises still relatively quiet. A pause, and then I hear a growl, and an otherworldly roar thunders through the valley, making the hair on my neck stand up and my stomach go sour. I rise to my feet to flee the opposite direction before I can smell his foulness. I run. Left, right, down another corridor, right, right, but he has found me and soon rounds the bends and I hear him grow closer. My lungs burn, trying to stay ahead, and it happens. 

I run out of luck. I see no telltale shadow at either side of the approaching wall of green. 

Dead end.

 My heart turns liquid as I realize my fate is sealed. I hear him approaching fast, and now I can smell the rancid breath, the dank odor somewhere between rotten food and middle school boy’s locker room…he slows with a series of malevolent grunts as he approaches… he knows I’m trapped. 

In a sudden burst of desperation, I jump up, reaching between the leaves, grab branches and hoist myself aloft, climbing the hedge. It’s a bit tricky, but I’m light and able to pull myself higher, scrapes notwithstanding. I lumber up the twelve or so feet. I can feel the clipped twig ends claw my skin but am way too full of adrenaline to pay much attention. And then I am at the top, balancing on the meticulously trimmed boxwood. I immediately hurl my body over to the next one, and then the next. I am full of scratches, but I continue throwing myself over another break, then another. I dare a glance back and see leaves churning several rows back.  I stop to catch my breath, still holding fistfuls of boxwood. 

He’s following. 

I see scrabbling, then more scrabbling, then it dawns on me…

He’s too heavy for the boxwood! HA! Suddenly my small size, which I have usually regretted in a moment of not being able to reach that damn box of Lindor truffles on the top shelf, is suddenly an advantage! In a moment of celebratory glee, my hands lose purchase and I almost slip back into the maze. I pull myself back up, balancing my weight carefully on the flat-topped hedge, and look around. I can still hear him scrambling, I have to move on before he figures out a way up.  

I crane my head, a prairie dog popup amongst the sea of green, and as I squint my eyes in the dim light, like a magical ending, there it is. My God, it was only six rows away. I continue my scratchy journey across the top of the hedges and climb down the side to the OUTSIDE of the maze, finally collapsing into a pile of gasping humanity.

 It was so easy to see the edge from the top. And then I immediately wonder…

Why, for the life of me, in the movies, do they never attempt to climb the hedge? Come on, Shelly Duvall. I mean, I suppose it would be a pretty short movie, and it’s most definitely not easy, and you get hella scratched up, but as any cop who has given chase can tell you, it’s absolutely possible to climb a hedge. When death is at your door, it’s incredible what your adrenaline-riddled body can accomplish. And that’s exactly what I did.

I’m climbing the hedge. 

I’m going to find a way to advantage the opportunities in this adversity. They’re always present, you have to find them.  

Have you ever heard of shorting the stock market? In the easiest laymen’s terms, it’s betting against a stock so when it falls you actually make money. The movie The Big Short (you really should watch it tonight) is about the market crash of 2008, and the very few who happened to see it coming. Most did not. This tiny handful of guys bet against the mortgage market, and made staggering amounts of money while most of the people involved lost their shirts, pants, boxers, and leg hair. It’s a great movie, but the bigger point I got out of it was this: 

You can find opportunity in crisis, especially if you refuse to be paralyzed by fear. And make no mistake, fear rates right up there with diving headfirst into a one-foot pool for causing paralysis. 

Is this taking advantage of others? No. The crisis doesn’t go away if you don’t grab the opportunity. During the  mortgage crisis, had they not bet against the mortgage companies, nothing would have changed. In fact, they did  sound the alarm, but no one wanted to listen. 

What does this mean? 

I’m going to short Covid. 

All around me, I’m starting to see opportunity. I start calling it silver linings, things I couldn’t normally do, opportunities opening up all around. 

I’m going to advantage this as much as I possibly can. I’m not working anyway, and have the rare commodity of time at my disposal. 

For about a week at the onset of the shutdown, I binge Netflix and drink like a fish like everyone else. 

Then I wake up. I don’t want to live this way, numbing my body and mind while the world and all its crises spin past… 

I watch The BIg Short one more time, and during the somber ending, I see the gem. 

I see the opportunity in the crisis. 

I get up off the couch. I’m done wasting time.  

In an effort to live out the concept of dressing for the job you want, I start by buying myself rockstar hair. I order toppers, hairpieces, falls…and finally settle on extensions, giving me this ridiculously long hair I can  rat  to the heavens and throw around onstage. It’s long, it’s black, it’s badass. 

A few of the musicians I know hide out, but many do not, and we are still practicing and have gigs booked. I start some little acoustic groups, small enough to play for venues who are  worried about too many people being around.  With so many bands not playing at all, we are able to find places who need us. 

Regarding my day job, I have been on an illicit speakeasy work tour of client’s houses, the word has spread and suddenly everyone wants me to do secret home visits so they can be rid of their pathetic plague-hair.

In the meantime, I’ve been looking for a private salon for literally years, they are as rare as a one-piece swimsuit during Spring Break in Miami. Unless, of course, the one piece is the lower half. But I digress. Because of the big bad buggie, a person who had rented a space IN THE SAME BUILDING I LIVE IN abruptly leaves the business, leaving her lovely private room in her wake. It is also a huge location, location, location stroke of luck. I swoop into this outdated 1975 beauty parlor and transform it into a debutante studio. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.

 It also would never have been available had this shitshow not happened. 

 Also, knowing that so many have little to do other than watch TV, I start writing this book, releasing a chapter at a time to the public. It is great timing. In a world where blogs can go totally unnoticed, I immediately gain a following. Millions are sitting home bored, I just kinda said hey, wanna hear a crazy story? And people listened.

I honestly don’t know when I ever would have gotten around to it otherwise. It truly was the perfect setup. 

And here it is, and here we are. 

I finish my draft of Chapter One: Start Here. I sit back, smiling, a glowing rocket on a launch pad. In my mind, I walk away from the labyrinth, and it gets smaller in my thoughts until it poofs out of my field of vision. My new life is thriving in the middle of a complete shitstorm.

I smile. 

I glance at my phone. 

I frown. 

No fucking way. 

Jackdude. 

I. Am.      FUCKED. 

It’s really true that no one saw this coming. At least not peasants like me. I guess it’s possible some evil overlord orchestrated the whole thing, a madman in his sinister lair cackling at humanity, the world suffering unaware, blindly infected by his evil plan. MUAHAHA! Take that, little people!! But I have no way of knowing about any secret nefarious plot, all I have is a nebulous suspicion that someone with a metric shit-ton of money miiiiggghht have been doing something they really shouldn’t have been doing. 

It’s a diabolical nightmare come to life. I’m supposed to wake up shaking and sweating, grateful to be back to reality, eyes darting around the room to make sure everything is normal. Problem is, no matter how hard I pinch myself, this reality isn’t going away, and I continue to cease waking up from this bad dream.  And suddenly I live in this bizarre Aldous Huxley world of externally imposed decrees.

I can’t work. 

I can’t go to the gym. 

My daughter can’t go to her University. 

I can’t go out. 

I’m not supposed to see my friends, or really anyone at all, and if I do, I am required to stay a specified distance away. Taped circles and arrows suddenly appear everywhere, and never in my life have I ever felt more like a chess piece STAY ON YOUR SQUARE, PAWN!! It is so fucking bizarre. Overnight, weird dictates are imposed. Many of them make absolutely no logical sense, and I wonder what insane meetings had to have happened in order to come up with these deranged rules. Six feet! Why? Because, ummm…..We need an arbitrary amount… Six feet!

Along with all of this weirdness, no one is supposed to leave their houses. 

Every now and then, a half-baked idea pops up in society, this time there is the concept that isolating everyone, an impossibly unsustainable idea, will somehow fix it. From the very beginning I see this as kicking the can down the road. Oh, there’s that damn can again, only this time we’re out of money and resources because of a lack of productivity and a ruined supply chain. Yeah, that’ll help. 

We are told that healthy people with good immunity have the best odds, then we are all shipped  home to sit and have food delivered into our laps whilst binging Netflix and drinking copious amounts of alcohol. 

Makes perfect sense. 

There is only one major country in the world, and a handful of states who decide not to participate in this nuclear solution. And the fallout is causing serious problems. 

I am ordered not to work for two weeks. 

 Then a month. 

Then two months. 

I run out of money. I fret, and fear, and despair. I become best friends with my couch. 

Well, what the hell do I do now? 

People who are crowned Necessary Human Beings are allowed to stay at work. Married couples with small children write long condescending diatribes on social media: “STAY HOME TO SAVE LIVES… WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU PEOPLE?” 

Look, lady, You have a husband, a two year old, and an infant who looks like you waited a whole eight seconds to start plastering her all over your account. YOU… weren’t leaving the house anyway. You won’t be for quite some time.  What the hell do you have to say to someone like me, who lives alone??! 

But levels of misunderstanding like this are reaching a fever pitch. 

Every person on this earth filters events through the lens of their experience, and this is no different. Those with health problems or elderly relatives freak out and yell at everyone that they are killing Nana, while parents panic over somehow persuading their children to sit staring at a screen all day after decades of being told that the very worst thing for a child is to sit staring at a screen all day. In the Captain Obvious department, after people are barred from their jobs and imprisoned in their homes with nothing but the TV and their annoying wife, there is civil unrest. Shocking. Areas of cities are burned to the ground. A renegade group starts their own small, short-lived country, flag and all. Doomsday preppers  descend into their bunkers and are probably eating canned spam right now, still  waiting for the all-clear signal that will never come. 

My lens of experience is, of course, the church, and all of these commandments smack of yet another external parental figure, another voice telling me how to live my life, instead of just presenting me information and allowing me, a grown-ass adult, to decide for myself how I will negotiate this. It all feels spectacularly patronizing to me, and I handle it as only someone who has already made a lot of renegade decisions will. 

I commit to living as normally as possible. I find a local gym who decided to buck the rules and sneak in for some illegitimate Burpees. I manage to find a bar that remained open in defiance, and hang out there and chat with the last semblance of normalcy I can manage to find. I go to the houses of my clients, checking over my shoulders as I bring in my bags to make sure the minions don’t turn me in. 

And, I come up with a plan. 

Surrounded by a sea of humanity in hidey-holes, I make a decision.

 I refuse to live in fear.

 I will be brave, I will live my life, I will not cower. This decision is so similar to the decisions I have already been making, it’s almost a foregone conclusion. I think back to Esther in the Bible, having the necessity to approach the King, even though the rules decree that she will be put to death for doing so. If I die, I die. This is far from the first time in my life I’ve had to face the question of death. Ever since I first filed for divorce I’ve been waiting for the crack of thunder from the sky, a blinding flash of lightning, a bolt taking me out for daring to be a church leader who decided to end her marriage in front of the world. 

I’ve been ready to die for a long time now, which makes me AWESOMELY qualified to live. 

Western society doesn’t do this very well.  We all will face this moment, but few are willing to do so. When I was in the church, repeatedly we would be called on to handle a funeral for someone whose death had zero planning, poor souls standing there begging for answers, won’t you please tell us what to do? It’s heartbreaking.  Death is…not great, it’s always painful, and always leaves you with the sense of having been robbed.

 But it’s not always unpredictable, though in our society most people  don’t want to see it, deal with it, or admit that  there is a point when the final credits roll on our story.  I remember when I was with Prepdude, the entire family failed to make any plans whatsoever for their ninetysomething year old parents, apparently hoping somehow in the back of their minds that they would be the first people ever to achieve immortality. It’s an easy pitfall with those you love. No one wants to let go, it’s understandable. Some societies have a far greater acceptance of the inevitable than do we here in the Western world, and a process and plan for grieving loss. And yes, it’s painful, but the only way to handle pain is to go through. Not deny, not bury, not let it become septic. 

It’s good to cry. 

There is a tendency to attempt to crush this. Some hold it back, building a massive fortress of a dam until all of the feelings are buried deep inside like festering immobile water, yellowed and mucky and full of every kind of sucking creature and larvae, until the vessel holding it, the person, is impossible to be around for the stench of their unprocessed emotion. 

Remember my long-lost best friend from the South? We used to have a saying when someone was crying, “Clean up in aisle four!”… because that’s how society tends to handle the inevitable difficulty  of emotion. It’s a mess, clean it up, hide it, just will you get RID of it for crying out loud, no one wants to see this instead of just admitting that each and every one of us has our own mess of a life going on. No one is charmed, no one is perfect, and if you keep burying the garbage, hiding your own towering boxes about to burst behind a beautiful cardboard facade, it’s too easy to feel superior and start treating others really poorly. Or become a despot or dictator, if you have a lot of money. 

Did you notice how money doesn’t fix this internal problem? 

It never does. I have known many very wealthy, very miserable people, especially during my ministry years when they would come to church attempting to figure out why money couldn’t fix them.  You can’t buy your way out of this. You must soul-search, and admit responsibility, and accept that there are things that are out of your control, and face your own dark side, and concede your mortality. Some just can’t, or won’t, take a clear look at themselves. 

I have already faced this place. I have faced the possibility of death. I have survived having nothing, I have survived all of these pages of adversity in your hand, and I refuse to live in fear of this latest boogeyman. 

I refuse to participate in the panic. 

I know exactly what to do next. 

“WHARR THUH SCHOOLBUS GOINN’ ??”

She’s yelling.

 Loud.

Beautiful perfume-saturated, hairsprayed, spike-heel bearing creatures pile into my bright yellow Renegade, earlier this evening having been tipsily dubbed the Magic Schoolbus, and I start the car, ready to spring these wild banshees on the next hot spot. We are tearing up Big Suburb as only divorcees out on a warm Midwestern night can. Everyone belts along to an old 80’s song, while I pull into the next parking lot and this collection of slightly used Barbie dolls tumble out of the bus. Clicks and clacks of heels hit the pavement as the little noisy entourage bumbles down the street and into the bar, subwoofer thumping out something unrecognizable.  

 I tailgate my friends inside.

Well, look who’s here? 

I immediately see Fundude working over his latest target, a chesty tall drink of water with heavily highlighted hair and a big cursive BELIEVE command shrieking from her forearm. Fundude, as always, is armed with free drinks and limo rides, ever on the prowl, though it would appear his hunt for the evening is just about complete. I go over and say hi, how are you doing? We stayed friends after dating, which was great. His proposal to me about our friendship, not so much. Hey! We can be friends with benefits! 

What benefits?

 If you have a great dental and vision plan, well then let’s talk, but I’m pretty sure he means sex, which will benefit exactly and only him. I consider sex with someone I’m not madly in love with and completely committed to a complete waste of time, and I am bemused, picturing me lying there with him on top of me thinking…Am I out of eggs? I really need to get my taxes done. Gawd, did he have onions for lunch? OUCH quit throwing my legs over my shoulders. He is gonna crush me. Good grief, isn’t he finished yet? Benefits?  BENEFITS?!! Are you freaking kidding me? His proposal is more one sided than a pair of broken headphones. Women reading this, DON’T DO IT unless you are VERY sure that this is exactly what you want, and it doesn’t interfere in any way with your life direction and eventual relationship goals. It doesn’t look great to your future partner that you were willing to sleep with your friend as a sexual pacifier. Although, with the number of guys who do exactly that, it may not matter. Ahh, forget it. 

Anyway, so here’s Fundude, and guess what? His pal Sportdude is out with him, too, ever seeking, ever searching. I can sense the prowl. 

Is this what I was like? Needing, searching? It’s a sobering thought, and the bit of fuzz in my head from the glass of wine at the last place blows out of my head as I starkly realize that this is exactly what I was like before. Playing the role of prey, decorated little target waiting for the wolves to descend. Maybe Fundude’s long ago casual comment about the wounded fawn wasn’t all that far off. But I’ve either left the Wild Kingdom, or maybe I’m just phoenix Monica flying overhead…watching the chase below with curiosity and amusement. 

You can have him.

 You can have all of them. 

 If you go out in Big Suburb, you can probably meet half these Dudes for real. I see them all the time. Most of them are still out in their Affliction T-shirts, the higher class ones in their 500$  Bruno Cucinelli dress shirts, desperately searching for the single man’s holy grail, Thin Fit Sexy Woman With Big Boobs, Long Blonde Hair and No Baggage Who Hasn’t Slept With Anyone Else (Though She Should Absolutely Put Out For You); Rocket Scientist Smart But Still Makes You Feel Even Smarter, Loves Football But Doesn’t Talk During The Game. 

Good luck finding THAT unicorn.

Meanwhile, I have been spending most of my time buried in life direction. I’m in a rock band now, and the screaming guitars and edgy stage clothes are about as far away from my church life as you can imagine. I went from Amy Grant to Lita Ford, and I’m not coming back. I’ve even gotten brave enough to play alone, accompanying myself on guitar and singing whatever the hell I want, the piano bar of guitar gigs. I’m outlining my first book, and making my business sing. I direct my life now, Not the church, not some Dude. I kicked his ass out of the director’s chair, I call the shots now, pal. 

I’m a modern-day Count of Monte Cristo, the guy who was a prisoner with nothing, only to come back later as, well, a Count. He is so transformed that no one recognizes him, including his rotten jailer, who gets nailed to the wall for being such an asshole.

I don’t seek vengeance, though. It is enough that repossessed my life, hauling ass down the street at 4 am hoping no one sees me take it back. 

Once I was a church girl, cowering under the threat of the hammer coming down if I made a mistake.

Once I was a dressed-up,bedazzled girl in the bar, desperately seeking a man to take the bait.

Once I handed a strange man my phone number, hoping he would call, oh PLEASE won’t you call?

Once I was scanning endlessly through profiles, looking for a soulmate…

Once I waited and waited and waited till I could pounce on some Dude’s text message, jumping at the chance to respond.

Once upon a time, I was another person. 

I have succeeded in completely reconstructing myself. 

It feels different. It feels good. 

I remember talking to a close male friend of mine, back when I had yet to leave Tiny Town, lamenting the men I had dated. He thought I was selling myself short. ”Monica, you’re doing pretty well. Why are you bothering with these idiots?” 

I did not have a good answer. I could also see this happening to my dear girlfriends who were  winding up in similar situations, giving themselves and their life energy to someone who really wasn’t adding any value to their lives, men arriving empty handed all ready for you to take the place of their mother. 

In fairness, men get stuck with this too, getting taken in by some beauty to get bait-and-switched into the black hole of her plastic-faced insecurity. It can happen either way. By some miracle, I was able to stop the damn merry-go-round and get off, and now that I’m off and no longer dizzy from its constant rotation, I can see clearly and don’t want any part of it. Tonight, I can hear the creaking of its rusting turnstile, as the hookups happen all over the bar, couples climbing aboard for the dizzying ride.

I look back on old Monica, and feel compassion. Oh, honey, if only you knew! If only you had the answers sooner! But process demands the journey, and I eventually did figure it out, and entered the passcode and it finally worked and the lock clicked open and I emerged from the final Lastdude Boss battle totally victorious. 

The Count of Monica Cristo is out tonight. 

So is Fundude’s married best friend, gazing at Fundude schmoozing the buxom blonde. More accurately, just gazing at the buxom blonde. I haven’t seen this guy in over a year.  

He seems surprised when he sees me. I ask about his family, his work…and after we chat a few minutes…

“What did you do? 

 “What do you mean?” 

“You have completely changed. Your whole vibe is different. You seem totally confident. Your entire personality seems transformed. You are literally like a completely different person.”

WOW. 

I knew I had changed, but I didn’t realize how much, and I never thought others would be able to tell.  

We have a very nice conversation. And now I’m thinking…if I can change to this degree, and make my life this cool, can’t I make it even better? Can I go even farther in my purpose, in my meaning, in how I treat those around me, in making my life amazing, spilling all the awesome onto those around me as well? 

It’s interesting also, the bottom feeders are no longer approaching me. I see them approach other women, but I must no longer be giving off that vibe that I am some sort of bait to be toyed with, and they leave me alone. 

It’s mind blowing. Everything changed when I finally made my life about being the best me I can be, and found my direction and laid hard into it, pedal to the metal in this race car hugging the grooves of the fast track to everything I want. Dude faces blur together until all I see is a mesh of colors on the roadside. I’m not looking there anyway. I’m looking straight ahead, laser focus on my goal.

But as I speed, suddenly the engine seizes and I screech and spin out into the hay bales, complete stop. 

No one saw this coming. 

I’m awful. 

I did something bad. Kind of. Well, maybe… 

I don’t know, you be the judge. It was a bit sneaky, though. 

I have a plan. 

I’ve been so busy with my Big Three, I’ve had little time for anything else, and by the time I’m back home at night, I mull over the day with a cup of chamomile tea and absolutely crash into some of the most rewarding sleep I’ve ever had. Having a purpose turns out to be the best drug ever, and I’m higher than a pothead at Burning Man. 

Have I told you about my bed? I bought the frame and mattress on a Black Friday whim, a knock-off of the Tempur-Pedic Cloud I had when I was married. Only I like this one even better, it’s actually a bit softer. You kind of sink into this type of mattress, no springs to poke my bony shoulders. No, they’re not my sponsor, but maybe they should be. Lately, it seems all the angels in Heaven have been ushering me off to peaceful slumber in this delightful cocoon. A pink cloud of thick comforter and enough pillows to be a total pain in the ass to put back together in the morning, it is my creation, and I love climbing in by myself each night. 

Wait, when did that happen? 

Even now, I’m having trouble putting my finger on it. At some point, I stopped fretting about going to bed alone. And started really enjoying it. 

Actually, I love it. It’s the perfect postscript to the end of each packed day. 

An average day of being me is kinda like this:

-Roll out of bed and journal, or write event cards for a future book. 

-Go to the gym or run outside. 

-Go to work, and make women beautiful. 

-Either practice by myself, go to rehearsal or have a performance, or go out with friends or increasingly, by myself. I have discovered the fun of chatting with whomever happens to be sitting next to me, it’s always an adventure, whether it’s Businessman Joe, Construction Guy Carl, or even Drunk Pete. Or Drunk Diane, gender doesn’t matter when it comes to colorful characters. 

-Come home and crash in the Pink Cloud, till I wake up for another adventure with the Big Three Purposes that have become my life.

Did you see a place in there where a date with some Maybe guy would win out over the other cool shit I’m doing? Casual dating has become a limp handshake with a clammy dead-fish appendage, and I don’t like it anymore. 

I don’t WANT it anymore.

Enter the Bad Girl. 

The bright light of clarity on this casual-dating no-commitment situation that isn’t going anywhere has started to blind me. It’s as prominent as the manbun on your barista.  Captain Obvious is so close his cape is whipping me in the face, and I just can’t deny it any longer. This is absolutely not working for me. I am the last one to criticize casual dating, I have learned a ton about myself and what I want by dating everyone but the kitchen sink…yet I sense the leaves falling, the chill of the wind, the sense that this season of my life is about to come to a conclusion. It’s time to put away my sandals, get out the sweaters, and let these freaking falling leaves die.

 I can’t identify exactly when, but there was a milestone I passed where I knew I no longer wanted to waste time on Lastdude. The words of my coach regarding the time being wasted on a Maybe was now galvanized into an iron sign imprinted on my inner eyelids and I just can’t unsee it, and suddenly this dating business is a distraction from my goals, my purpose, my destiny. 

My coach was absolutely correct about this hindering my direction. One needs to be mighty careful about The Other, because once you have a Significant Other, you have to consider where they’re headed, what their expectations are, and what they might think about your messy but beloved Jackson Pollock print. They will bring their own direction and idiosyncrasies to the table, and now you have to have the discussion about where the couch should go and whether he’s willing to have sushi for dinner yet again. You’ll also have to fess up about your secret love for eating sardines straight from the can and binge-watching Hoarders. 

As all of these changes have taken place, and with every single Dude, I have been gradually morphing into a new being. Forged of an alloy of experiences, a solid and much stronger individual, no longer so easily swayed. I’m going to keep the Pollock and the sushi, thank you very much.

Direction solidified,  I am repeating to myself who I am and what I want daily. There is a specific trajectory I need to stay on to get what I want.  But there’s one last thread, a hindrance, a distraction, one final string tethering this hot air balloon, preventing its rise to the heavens.

 I don’t have time for Lastdude anymore.

 I don’t want him. 

I don’t want anyone. No more Dudes. 

The twin blades of the scissor are gleaming, the final tool of destruction, my means to freedom. 

I’m going to cut the string. 

So what’s the bad thing I did? 

I set him up. 

I knew if I played this right, he would practically break up with me.  

Lastdude is sweet, but he’s horribly unreliable. He doesn’t own an alarm clock (I know!) and seldom gets up before the afternoon. I’ve been making all the plans. It’s too easy. 

I concoct this final plan in my mean little head. 

I’m so totally irritated with his inability to adhere to any schedule that the plan almost writes itself. And one beautiful Sunday, I set the trap. 

I’m busy the next few days, how about if we do dinner on Wednesday? Seven o’clock? Sounds great! We will meet at one of our very favorite restaurants. We set the plans and chat a bit longer, but I hang up with a smirk. The trap is perfect. All I have to do is not give him the bunch of usual reminders, are you up? Are you coming? Do we still have plans??

Monday…Tuesday… Wednesday… five…six…seven… 7:05…7:10…7:15…

7:20 that Wednesday, I walked away a free woman. 

I hold the phone in my hand…ring, ring, riiiing… hello?

“Where the hell are you? We had plans.”

“Well, I didn’t hear from you, so I assumed…”

“I never canceled them.”

“Uhhhhm…”  

…and I use this as the launching pad for the difficult conversation about why I am no longer going to be dating him. I tell him that we are incompatible timewise, him generally not even setting an alarm while I like to control where my time goes and haven’t been without an alarm clock since 1978, him showering every couple of days while I insist upon smelling like soap and French perfume, me, as usual, putting in all of the time and effort whilst he just enjoys the free company. I’m done with even this last little bit of romantic bullshit. 

I conclude the conversation by addressing the vast amounts of time he spent lamenting his lost love. Brandy this, Brandy that. It was the Marcia, Marcia, Marcia of the relationship, he just could not get Brandy out of his head, and therefore she invaded our communication, a relentless cockroach repeatedly skootching its ugly brown body across our conversations. I had mentioned that he wasn’t into me the way he seemed to have been into Brandy, but he would just say “I don’t know if I’ll ever love anyone like I loved Brandy.” 

Yeah. 

Well, today I finally found my balls and informed him that I’m not interested in the silver medal. It’s fucking gold, or I go home. 

Goodbye, Lastdude. 

And hello, life! 

I click end on the phone, and cuddle into my Pink Cloud. 

Alone. 

But this time, it’s completely different.