People tell me I’m a good writer. My mom has told me for awhile I should start a blog. I didn’t until today though have a platform I felt was blog-worthy. Then I got stuck in my dress.
I have this collection of Target dresses that fit me perfectly and are fabulous for the days when I didn’t quite get out of bed early enough to put together an outfit. Throw on dress – grab cardigan – shoes – done. Today I grabbed a red dress and black wrappy thing with strings. (As an aside, this black wrappy thing has gotten me into trouble before when I went to the bathroom and didn’t mind the strings… but I digress) I got the dress mostly zipped as per the usual and then made one of my coworkers finish the job once I got to work. I had to work late and then go buy eggs. My running group is having an end of season celebration tomorrow night and I promised to make brownies. Then I discovered my eggs had been bad for several weeks. (Which in itself is another danger of singledom – food going rotten all the time because there are simply not enough people to eat it) Anywho – so after work went to store in my work finery and came home for baking magic. Turned on oven and rushed upstairs anxious to put on stripey PJ pants and t-shirt. This is the moment when everything nearly collapsed in on itself. While I typically can’t wiggle around enough to zip up my clothing, I can usually get it off. Not so tonight. I’m not sitting here typing still wearing that dress but lets just say it took considerably more effort than normal to get out of that thing.
So I started thinking. This whole single, independent thing has its pros but certainly there are downsides. Such as getting stuck in your work dress. Also it’s a little awkward asking random colleagues to finish dressing you – a task you should have been able to accomplish solo after all those lessons about tying and buttoning on Sesame Street. And always having stinky food in your refrigerator because you never eat it because eating alone is depressing. Being the maid, gardener, trash person, cook, plumber, handyman, and nanny (well, for the two cats) all in one. It’s exhausting.
I feel there must be more of my kind out there. I’m twenty-nine, have a good job, own my home, live with two cats and rarely vacuum. (Singledom presents many dangers, but one bonus is not having to do certain chores just because other people are bothered by the tumbleweed-esque balls of cat fur skating across the floors.) While I jest about the trivial inconveniences of living alone, I’ve had some truly not so safe encounters that will make any parent’s stomach turn (impaling my elbow with a nail, climbing into my attic unattended, dropping an air conditioner out a second story window…just to name a few). The real reason though for writing is I get lonely. As busy as I keep myself, at the end of the night there’s just something to be said for having someone to talk to before you go to sleep. So in the absence of a human and to satisfy my friend who insists it is inappropriate and weird to have conversations with my cats, I’m blogging. Get excited.