Shopping for One

Walking through the grocery store, you can tell I'm shopping for one by the items in my cart. Mine as well have a sign plastered across my forehead that said "single and ready to mingle." I continue to walk hastily down the aisle ohhhhing and ahhing at the latest wine bottles each sitting in their glass-box freezers, all laden with equally as pretty labels that feign expensive taste. "Two-for-one Special" signage really ruins the connoiseur aspect of my adventure. I'm not a wine-connoiser, nor do I pretend to be. I just need a cheap bottle of vintage grapes to get me through Sleepless in Seattle for the 112th time. Back to Twentysomething.

Sign number one that she's single- she's a) dressed in business casual feigning importance as to signal to everyone including the 18 year old stock boy in the cereal aisle that "Yes, I'm single, but I'm fine with that because I'm an important business woman." (Yeah right. I secretly spend what money I have left after paying rent and bills on a $20 slutty dress from Forever 21 hoping that this time, it might just get me a boyfriend.....oh, how naiive we (I) can be.

b) She's dressed in workout clothes, a dewey forhead, and enough endorphins to make her plastic smiles seem the effect of plastic surgery gone awry. Workout clothes suggest, "Hey, I'm an athletic, healthy girl who occasionally binges on low-fat graham crackers." Come and get 'em boys.

c) The items in my cart couldn't BE any more evidence than is needed. Even a blind two-year old could sense the desperation oozing from my "Lower in sugar Maple Brown Sugar oatmeal." Seriously, who eats that kind of shit, only single twentysomethings. I GUARANTEE you.

Just Plain Awkward

Is it better to be silent, or mutter incessant awkward phrases? I wish I could say that I'm the former, but being as it may, I hate awkward silences, now there's an oxymoron, so I choose to be the latter. That's right, I'm the queen of saying awkward things just to fill the space in a verbal continuum that exists among normal, non-anxiety ridden people.

Imagine this, you like a person, a lot. BUT, instead of being a normal single twentysomething ( I love spelling that out, like it's a club you have to sign up for). Okay, so instead of being a normal single twentysomething, you revert to being the awkard 6th grader that you were at the sock hop- yes, I said sock hop. Deal with it. I find myself saying stupid things and telling stupid stories to make everyone else around me laugh. The result? Stories that just make me look plain stupid, and just plain awkward.

Webster's dictionary categorizes awkward-ness as UNGAINLY and lacking GRACE. Well I laugh in the face of awkwardness, I'm naming my first daughter Grace, just so her name answers any lingering questions.

No Apologies

Elevator Small Talk

You have seven floors to say "hi." After that, the doors close and the probability of ever seeing your stranger again, is next to nothing. Listen carefully, because next time you find yourself in this square box breathing in the same air as your neighbor, you'll think twice before staring down at his shoes searching desperately for something interesting on his shoelaces to concentrate on. Instead, you'll step into the air-tight deathtrap (pardon my pessimism, but if you really think about it, you're riding in a flying box suspended in the air held only by a 2-guage cable) stare that person directly in the face, and say "hi."

Isn't it funny how fascinating your nail-beds become when you're riding in the elevator. In an effort not to make contact with your neighboring passengers, your hangnails suddenly become the most interesting thing about you, and you force yourself to fix a serious gaze onto them, well aware that the Suit next to you is probably wondering what's so great about your nails.

Then there's the nonchalant glance at your phone, as if you could care less whether or not you have a missed called. (Although you've been compulsively checking it like clockwork waiting for the bell to go off alerting you that yes, someone else in this world does know you exist other than your Mother. By the way, parents and siblings should count against your call log. It's their job to call you, doesn't count in my book.)

Then there's scenario B. You step over the ledge separating the stationary world from the moveable world when Mr. Litheeeyum holds your stare, wishes you a good afternoon, and picks up a conversation with you as if you're an old friend. After you realize there isn't anyone else in this small room and yes, he's talking to you, it's too late, he's already staring at you wondering if you're a mute because you won't answer his question. You hastily spit out "yes" and nod your head politely, secretly praying he didn't ask if you worked Sunset Boulevard at 4am and that's why you looked familiar. Next stop, reality and the doors open.

Who knows, maybe your deathtrap is really the window to the start of something. Note to self: the stairwell should always be your section option. Moveable rooms are much more interesting.

Since writing this post, "Huh" has become much more confident about riding in elevators with boys.

Ann Taylor's Closet

I looked in my closet the other day and stopped dead in my tracks. I’ve never seen so many muted colored cardigans in my life. All neatly stacked against equally as muted button-down shirts. Neither have I ever seen so many knee-length black skirts. All just dark enough to cover that oatmeal you spilled yesterday, er last week. So I’ve officially opened up an account at Ann Taylor. Ann Taylor for goodness sakes! I used to sit bored on the floor in the dressing room there waiting and waiting for my mom to choose something, anything. I just wanted to get out of there. Now I find myself wandering in there during lunch breaks oohing and ahhing at the latest spring kitten heels and asking the perky sales lady if they happen to have that in a size 6 ½. Excuse me while I vomit. I must wander into the thrift store my next lunch break even if it’s just to sit in the “dressing room” to get away from the kitten heels and cap sleeves chasing me in my dreams. So, it’s official. I have Ann Taylor’s closet. Next.

Le Vending Machine

So my mom used to prepare my lunch in middle school. Then I got to college and my Pony Express card magically produced a plate heaping with warm food from the questionable cafeteria, aptly called “Café.” Let’s just call it what it really is okay. It’s a cafeteria complete with hairnets and steel serving-spoons wedged inside amorphous casseroles. Then came the egregiously happy lunch lady at the sorority house. Beaming every day with the one goal to “strengthen your bones” aka cook every Mexican dish oozing with cheese in the books. Then there’s the real nightmare. You have to actually start cooking for yourself when you get home from work. And when I say “cook,” I really mean that a man named George who owns a grill and a cold-looking microwave start to look like your two new best friends. You now know which button to press for every conceivable frozen dinner at the grocery store. The vending machine at work also starts call your name around 4 in the afternoon. You’ve even convinced yourself that gummi bears are a sort of vitamin source. A4 $.75. Wow.

Rest in Peace Frat Boy

Behind every sorority girl is a King-of-the-World Frat Boy. And with every Frat Boy, there’s an entourage of even more frat boys. All beating their chests in unison, begging for the title Fastest Man Chugger on Campus (must be read in a loud booming voice.) Dear Frat boy, the day has finally come to hang up that paddle. Your weapon of choice now? The ability to “shoot off an e-mail” at the speed of light and the chance to “circle back with your team with a quickness.” Neither of which requires physical stamina or sweat beads. Yes, we know you used to be able to bench-press 180 at the gym whilst eyeing the ladies. Gone are the days when it was “cool” to be sweating beer the next day. Here’s another tip, resist the urge at the next office happy hour to crush your beer can against your forehead. Next time your colleague makes a funny joke, just extend your forearm in the form of a high-five. It doesn’t involve a huge bruise on your forehead, I promise. Oh yeah, and if you see a stack of quarters sitting neatly in front of your boss at the bar, by all means, don’t start flipping them, or his beer glass. It will only end in embarrassment. So may you Rest in Peace Frat Boy. I’ll bring you a six-pack next time you “score” a Client.