I am out of words.

For all of the good advice and caring I’ve received this week, I am out of words.

For all of the moody music I’ve listened to, for the pint of ice cream I ate, for the mindless TV I’ve watched, I’m out of words.

I am not depressed or terribly sad or crying anymore. I’m not bitter or rage-filled. I am out of words.

So I’m sitting, curled up alone in this bed without my words to comfort me, thinking about myself, thanking the heavens for my kind friends.

Grand realizations and cathartic outbursts deserve a moment or two to sink in. So I am marinating in my past choices, pausing in this slight melancholy and planning my next step.

I don’t know why I thought it would make me feel better, but I decided on Sunday to check out of life for awhile, go off the radar and see a cheesy romantic comedy (Definitely, Maybe) all by my lonesome. My goal was to not think about anything but silly dialogue.

This was, of course, impossible. I’ve never been able to fully shut off my mind and remove myself from my often busy life before. And Sunday was no different.

My mom, always a source of reality, looked at me this week as I juggled a purse stuffed full of my daily armor – a notebook, two cell phones with chargers and earpieces, Tylenol, my Lauren clutch that doubles as a wallet, a slew of pens and highlights, a folder of two of assorted work papers, an iPod and a makeup bag – and asked, quite simply, “What if you had a husband right now? Can you imagine working this much if you had a family?”

Truth be told, I couldn’t.

I brushed off her question with a shrug and pointed out for the millionth time that I’m doing this now so that I don’t have to do it later, but her comment lingered with me as I stayed with my three cousins last night so their parents could have a much-deserved night out. As I hustled to keep up with an inquisitive two year old who melted my heart with his big eyes, inane jabbering and adorable ways – to get him to eat a carrot I’d zoomed it around like an airplane and planted it in his mouth and he immediately grabbed another carrot and mimicked my motions, shoving it in my mouth, as if to say, “Lady, if I’m eating this, so are you” – my doubts about my current situation flared up.

I don’t know if life has to be an either/or situation. Either you work your tail off all of the time at the detriment to your personal life or you focus only on your relationships and your career suffers. Maybe I can’t accept that life could be so black and white because I wouldn’t be happy if it were. I don’t want it to be.

There is this longing in my personal life for something more than single serve takeout dinners and bad reality television. And it has been evident, painfully so, for quite some time. But by never doing anything about it, by never fully dragging myself out there, by nesting in my comfy cocoon, I can save myself a modicum of rejection. I suppose.

But the one-note, work-all-of-the-time lifestyle isn’t saving me heartbreak anymore. If being rejected and feeling unloved by one particular man stings, I’ve realized lately that setting myself up to feel completely rejected by the world might hurt even more. I should giggle and enjoy a silly movie about love or hearing about an acquaintance’s engagement or a college friend’s new baby. Instead I’m angry and bitter and twisted and moved only to the point where I’m asking, “What about me?”

I do want to be the Woman in the Song – the one who makes him crazy, keeps him up at night, without whom his days would all be nights. And even as I think that, I immediately reject the notion of such as pure fantasy. We don’t all get to be the heroine. We aren’t all the Woman in the Song.

Not that I would ever give myself the chance to be Her. I’m too wrapped up in other things to truly put myself in much of a position to be loved. It’s much easier to stay stuck and blame my lack of love on anything and everything else.

I’ve become whiny. My true personality is almost unrecognizable at times. I look in the mirror and I see drive and dedication to something external. And when I do turn that focus on myself, it is only superficial – a haircut or a shopping trip or a new handbag. For someone who can be so self-centered sometimes, I sure haven’t figured out how to focus any self absorption on soothing my own soul, quieting my own fears and making myself any less alone (or lonely).

Anytime I do manage to project an air of aloof calmness, my Devil May Care attitude is purely a front. As it was the other night when, after asking for my card three weeks ago, saying he would call (he didn’t) and alluding in e-mail to the fact that we would be seeing each other before last Thursday’s group outing to a concert (we didn’t), a certain Flirty Wine Distributor ignored me during said group outing. (And I’m not writing about him right now, but if I were I’d mention how unacceptable and rude that behavior was.) To my girlfriends, I rolled my eyes, bought my own beers and announced that I was over the snub because clearly he wasn’t worth it. To myself, I wondered if he’d notice my relaxed attitude and how much fun I could have on my own and grimaced when couples danced to one of my favorite songs.

Lame.

And sure, I don’t actually care about my little Man Fling, who asked with trepidation the other day if I wanted a child and breathed a sign of relief when I said, “Yes, but not now.” But his quick Thank-God-She’s-Not-Going-To-Trap-Me answer stung more than it probably should have, so I shot back, “Yes, I want to get married first. And I know I won’t be marrying you.”

The Blackberry accused me of using him the other night, when I rebuffed his late-night advances but had earlier accepted a glass of wine from him at a bar. (And yes, he was in the wrong – I had my card out to pay for my glass of wine and he made a show of telling the bartender to put it on his tab. And even if I had demanded a free drink, I don’t subscribe to the notion that I owe any man anything in that or most any situation.) What struck me was that he might actually be right. I am letting him stroke my ego every few weeks. And I shouldn’t need attention from someone I don’t care about.

My point, which I seem to have lost, is that I am wholly unfocused toward any personal life goal right now. I shudder at the thought that I will wake up ten years from now, all by myself in this same two-person bed of my own making.

And, if only for right now and if only as a start, I’m not going to hide my fear of being alone because I want to seem strong or independent or evolved or modern.

I’m finished apologizing.

As I type, a yummy cocktail of codeine cough syrup and sweet tea is snaking its way into my belly – hopefully it will take over very soon. You see, I haven’t slept well in two nights and my doctor swears I don’t have the historic flu Worst Flu Season Ever flu, but he did agree that I definitely had a fever and a nasty cough. And my body is sore. And a killer headache. And the chills. And wheezing lungs. All of this earned me a shot and a super strong, and naturally disgusting, prescription.

Which doesn’t have much to with anything other than to say that I’m heavily medicated and lacking sleep, which is a dangerous combo. Indeed. (Case in point, The Blackberry just offered via text to make a housecall. When I rebuffed his advance and said I was fevery and icky, he responded with “That’s how I like ‘em.” Awesome side note: Apparently my cell phone, which uses predictive texting, hasn’t yet learned the term “slut,” so I had to teach it that so I could call him one.)

What’s weird is that today I’ve been thinking about doctors. My new primary care doctor. My orthopedist. (No more fracture! Can wear heels in a month!) And my OBGYN.

See, I’ve been taking recommendations for a new OBGYN. Because my old OBGYN is, well, old and he’s near retirement and, hell, he delivered me. Which is kind of a problem because he’s not delivering babies anymore. And whenever I think of this, I hear “I don’t know nothing about birthin’ no babies!” in my head.

I do.

So I’ve had to have the awkward conversation with people:

“Why do you need a new OBGYN?”

“Well, my guy is near retirement and he doesn’t birth babies anymore and I want to have babies in the next five to seven to 10 years.”

And that is so weird to say aloud. Because when you’re single and 28 with no prospects and no potential father in mind, picking a new OBGYN because you want to one day have babies seems a bit off. And I’m sure people are thinking, “Oh yeah, before you pick an OBGYN to birth your imaginary unmade baby, maybe you should pick a man, mmmkay?”

But, you know, since you only see an OBGYN once a year (ideally), you only have so many years to establish a doctor-patient relationship. Shouldn’t you start now instead of waiting until you actually get preggers?

This is one of those moments where planning for the future seems a bit futile. And maybe it is the fact that I haven’t washed my hair in two days and I’m sniffly and full of phlegm and I’m in my rattiest sweatpants, but I seem so far from ever finding a partner at this exact moment that changing OBGYNs to find someone who will birth my as-yet-and-possibly-never-conceived baby seems overly idealistic.

And, ohmygoodness, I just laid out my procreation timeline for the entire Internet.

I’m blaming the codeine.

I’ve finally had time to sufficiently rest from and process Best Friend Ever’s wedding this weekend. I’d expected to be sad and sniffly that the woman I’ve so often commiserated with was leaving me all alone in my singleness. And aside from a few tears upon seeing her glide down the aisle, all glamorous and beaming in an ivory gown with the biggest bridal bouquet that I ever did see (and a giggle when her veil got caught on her tiara when her parents tried to remove it), I didn’t feel heartbroken or alone or sad.

I felt a mixture of excitement and relief for my friend. And that’s me being completely, brutally honest – and this may make me a bad person, but I really did think I’d be cynical and bitter, not because I don’t want her to be happy, but because of my own jealously.

I surprised myself, I really did. Because it was ultimately uplifting and reassuring to know that her husband is caring and committed and loving and funny and interesting and warm. I know her past exploits and I wasn’t lying when, after a few cocktails, I danced with him and said, “We really are so happy for you and we know that you’re the right man for her and we all know that she got her a catch.”

Don’t get me wrong – I’m so terribly jealous that my two best buds from high school are married and that my rock from college is engaged. I want what they have. I want the lightness in my step, the gleam in my eye and the arm around my waist. But I don’t resent them for their happiness like I used to. Maybe it is the New Year and growing older and coming to terms with any number of things about myself, but I don’t blame anyone else for me being lonely right now.

But back to her wedding.

At some point in her perfect planning, she just threw up her hands and said, “All that matters is that I’m married at the end of the day.” And this pleased her and calmed her frantic planning and things fell into place and those things that didn’t really didn’t matter anyway.

And I hobbled down the aisle in my cast boot with a groomsman who, ironically, also had a bum foot from surgery. We all danced the night away, I may (ok, I did) give alcohol to a very underage boy who promised me he was 21 and Best Friend Ever’s younger brother, who at age 18 is a freshman in college, looked at me during a dance in a curious tone and said, “You know, I’ve heard some stories about you. I’ve always thought you were her wild friend.”

I half expected him to end the sentence with “Mrs. Robinson.”

I just smiled, narrowed my eyes, motioned to a fellow bridesmaid and high school classmate and said, “If you want wild, dear, you go talk to her.”

The truth is I’ve been a bit grumpy lately. It’s the holidays and I’ve been busy. Work. Shopping. A weekend trip out of town for Best Friend Ever’s bachelorette party. (Side note: I felt much like country mouse gone to the city. Where I’m from “bottle service” means Budweiser, Miller or Coors.) Missing my dear out-of-town friends. Not seeing enough of my in-town ones.

And my birthday, which was today, was kind of an afterthought. Sure I’ve made some plans to celebrate with friends and family. While I traditionally enjoy being showered with attention for My Day and those closest to me certainly wished me well and made me feel special and so unbelievably lucky to be surrounded by warmth and kindness, I haven’t been able to shake this sense of melancholy.

So I’ve reached out and refused to be a shut in. And slowly, the feeling is fading.

Renewing my faith in myself and working to pinpoint what is bringing me down, well, that may take a bit longer.

At least by this age – 28 – I know myself well enough to acknowledge my moodiness, which I’m sure is a first step of some kind.

Weekend birthday plans? Check. Christmas plans? Check. New Year’s Plans? Double check.

There’s nothing like anticipating good times to motivate you to dust yourself off, slap on a pair of heels and pass a good time, ya hear?

This is a bit early, but I’ve been thinking about what I’m thankful for a lot lately. Probably because I’m kind of checked out and thinking about m family’s trip to see my brother for the holiday next week. This is the longest I’ve been without being twenty minutes or fewer away from him in my life and, well, even if we didn’t always make that ten-minute drive, there’s something for knowing we could have.

I’m thankful for my family and how as much as I may complain about them and as much as we annoy each other and sometimes don’t see eye to eye, they really truly love me and each other. And I’m starting to learn that this isn’t something that everyone has and I’m so terribly thankful for that and I’m horrified that for many years I didn’t see my loud, nosy, opinionated relatives for how awesome they truly are because they are mine and without them I probably wouldn’t make much sense, right? 

My parents have been married for so many years – more than thirty, but after that who’s counting, really? And I’m thankful that in all of those years of runny noses and bills and car repairs and dirty dishes, they managed to stick around for the birthdays and anniversaries and family dinners and little wonderful moments that taken one-by-one somehow add up to a lifelong commitment.

I’m thankful for my sister, who is stubborn, but really in the best way. Who has no poker face, who can’t hide when she’s anxious or scared, who is finally learning to walk in heels without looking like such a drag queen all of the time. Who is really so beautiful and will, I’m sure, look in the mirror one day and see that. Hopefully.

I find it to be highly unlikely that it is actually November.

In fact, I believe with all of my soul that it is really only March or so. Because I can’t accept that time flies by so quickly, that time spent at a desk turns into days and days spent inside. That I really am getting older by the minute.

Did I miss summer? How did I possibly only lounge by the pool one time this summer? I bought a spray bottle with a fan on it and everything!

In six weeks, I’ll be 28. My birthday always seems so far away until – bam! – it is right there and I’m forcing people to serenade me and buy me cocktails and whining about being old and tallying up my remaining eggs. And then it is Christmas and I’m setting lofty goals and optimistically plodding forward into the New Year, which will be THE YEAR that all of the pieces fall into place.

And I will be that way in early 2008, because I am pretty predictable in my moods. Like a winter chill and Valentine’s Day and a new season of American Idol, my optimism will return.

In the meantime, I’ll spend the rest of 2007 worrying about what happens if all of the pieces don’t ever fall into place.

It seems like I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about being a grown-up and staring down 30. And, no, I’m not ready for that game again this year.

So it simply can’t be November just yet – I’m calling it March from now on.

Note: Mildly incoherent rambling ahead.

Saturday I joined Southern Belle and The Lawyer to tailgate in style – a tent, a grill, a TV and some adult beverages. The Lawyer and I rolled up in the early afternoon (after Friday night of dinner out and a bottle of wine at my place) with orange juice and champagne.

“Isn’t it a bit late for mimosas?” someone asked.

“It is never too late for mimosas,” I deadpanned as we cracked open the first bottle.

The group was relaxed and fun, a far cry from my college days of pre-game drinking, when the goal was to drink as much beer and as many shots as we could possibly muster. We lounged about, and the women gathered to one side of the tailgate to talk about life and work and waxing and accessories. My aim on this afternoon and others like it is to catch up with friends and not think about the trials of adulthood, the bills to pay, the upcoming week at work.

Midway through the afternoon, The Lawyer suggested that we visit our “old” tailgating group, our friends from college who still get together each week with a big set-up that includes four tents and a machine that serves chilled shots of Jagermeister.

So we walked over for a visit and I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of awkwardness. A few people immediately rushed over to say hello, some of them I hadn’t seen in years. I hugged a newly married couple and another guy rushed over and drunkenly acted like he was humping my leg. One of The Lawyer’s old flings slurred a hello and proceeded to tease me about the same things he’d been teasing me about for years before pointedly mentioning his new girlfriend in a way that seemed totally out of place and as if he were making a point to The Laywer. I rolled my eyes behind my sunglasses.

The thing that made it awkward was that they felt the same – the same guys with the same jokes and the same friends, doing the same things we’d been doing at age 21. Only now we’re in our late 20s or early 30s and it just didn’t seem as enriching. I’d once vowed to always have as much fun as I was having at age 22, but my 27 year old self just couldn’t find anything to say to them. They were my drinking buddies, but I’ve moved on.

It can feel difficult at times to be one of the last of the singles in my “new” group of friends. They’re married or living with their significant others in houses they own. We check our work e-mail on weekends and don’t mind not going out four nights a week. And sometimes when I’m trading recipes with my girlfriends or discussing establishing a relationship with a young OBGYN who will still be delivering babies in five years, I wonder what happened to the 22 year old who just wanted to wear mini skirts and drink bar brand vodka with cranberry and dance to loud music at overcrowded bars with sweaty guys.  The girl who was in love with her disinterested best guyfriend and acted out by kissing as many fellow bottom-shelf liquor drinking boys as possible. Who would laugh at wine out of anything other than a box and thought Pasta Roni was a gourmet meal.

But as The Lawyer and I fled that tailgate on Saturday, I decided that the 22 year old is long gone and the 27 year old doesn’t mind that so much.

“Well that was quite a blast from the past,” I said. And I paused. “Let’s get back to the present as fast as we can.”

Last week’s Happy Hour came and went with no romantic fireworks to report. I had a nice time with the group and had the first of what I hope will be many Harvest Moon Pumpkin Ales made by the Blue Moon Brewing Company. It’s not quite cold enough for me to sink into a thick, dark beer like a Mackeson XXX. But soon.

It took a little while to engage The Wine Guy in conversation – we were all sitting at a long table and not meandering around a bar, so the dynamic was different. He truly seems a bit on the shy side and he had a guy friend with him to talk to.

After things warmed up a little, we started sharing stories of college and it turns out that The Wine Guy? I probably met him in college. I mentioned a bar I always went to while I was in school and he said, “Hey, I lived there. I was there every night.” So yes, in my younger, wilder, jager and vodka-hazy days, I met this man and I don’t really remember him at all.

We went through people we knew and it turns out that one of my friends dated one of his friends and my College Roommate on occasion hung out with two of his good friends who were in our major and he said, “Well, you might know my other friend, but he’s probably older.”

And he told me who his friend was and it took everything in my power not to snort and laugh and choke on my beer because not only did I know the guy (we’ll call him Center of Attention Guy), but I very briefly went out with him oh so many years ago.

Flashback to at least 1999 or 2000. I was a young college student, aged 19 or 20. Center of Attention Guy was at least three or four years older than I was – every group of college kids has a guy like Center of Attention Guy, a perennial college senior with who has forgotten his age. I ran into him one day and we ended up having lunch and by the time I’d returned home from lunch and running an errand, I had a message from Prom Date saying, “You went on a date with [Center of Attention Guy]!”

Now, I hadn’t thought our lunch was a date, but word traveled fast. Center of Attention Guy was a nice guy, but he had a slightly abrasive personality that people either loved or hated. A touch hard to handle. I was unsure as to where I stood in the spectrum of like and dislike, as I’d always viewed him as mildly annoying. Our lunch had been fun and we’d never run out of things to talk about, so I decided to wait and see where it went.

He invited me to his Christmas Party, which was the same night as another party that had demanded “dressy” attire, despite the fact that it was just a regular drunkfest that happened to be Christmas themed. I decided to go to Center of Attention Guy’s party first for a few minutes and then head over to the party I originally wanted to attend.

It is easy for me to see now that I was a bit clueless as to the fact that Center of Attention Guy really liked me and also slow to realize that I didn’t share his feelings. Dropping by for fifteen minutes before I scampered off was probably a touch heartless. In my defense, when I told him I was coming, I also told him I had a prior engagement that evening.

So there I am in a long black skirt, high-heeled boots and a soft, form-fitting turtleneck sweater. I’d decided that an all black ensemble was as dressy as I was getting to drink beer out of cans, but I had brushed sparkly eyeshadow across my lids and put big curls in my long hair.

As soon as Center of Attention Guy saw me, his eyes lit up and he said, “[Charming], I am so glad you came. You look so pretty and dressed up.” He was genuinely glad to see me and mistakenly thought the curls and sparkles and tight sweater were for him.

And I, because I was young and clueless, said, “Oh thanks; the other party I have tonight is allegedly kind of dressy.”

His shoulders dropped. “You got dressed up for another party?”

Clearly my masterful PR skills hadn’t kicked in yet, because I said, “Yeah, it is Christmas Party Season. But I’ll have a beer if you have one to spare.”

Unintentionally heartless, I swear. We had a beer and he walked me to my car and said he was so glad to see me.

I didn’t talk to him during the semester break, but a few weeks after New Year’s he asked me out on a proper date. It was one of the nicest, most well-planned dates I’ve been on. He picked a good restaurant about an hour off the beaten path; he burned a CD full of songs he knew I liked for the ride and for me to take home. (To this day, I can’t hear “Boogie Shoes” by KC and the Sunshine Band without remembering this date.) When we got to the restaurant they sat as where his grandparents always sat and he clearly knew his way around the menu, ordering us some of the best bread pudding I’ve ever had in my life for dessert. After dinner we had a great conversation as we drove back to town and watched a movie and hung out.

And then it all fizzled – I was busy and he was busy and then I felt like he was blowing me off and so when I saw him I turned up my nose and ignored him. To retaliate, he told a mutual friend or two that I was “moody and insensitive.” (It turns out that he had heard through the grapevine that I said I’d known immediately that I wasn’t attracted to him. I did say this after a few cocktails, though I’d never expected him to find out.)

In what was never one of my proudest moments, I was crashing a party at his house after the “moody and insensitive” comment. On the way to the party I’d commented that we’d had such a nice time on the date and I couldn’t figure out why he’d acted so strangely. And so the evening might have ended with me standing in his living room proclaiming that I was “NEITHER MOODY NOR INSENSITIVE” and he might – might! – have kicked everyone from the party out of his apartment because he was mad at me.

Ahem.

And then the next girl he dated it the woman he eventually married. When he introduced me to her he bungled the introduction because he didn’t know what to say – had we dated or had we not. Prom Date said he could have gone with “This is [Charming]. I tried to date her but she wouldn’t let me.”

Flashing forward seven some odd years, back to Happy Hour with The Wine Guy, I just smiled and said, “Yeah, I know that guy.”

I was about to drift asleep when Conan announced that Ani DiFranco was the musical guest. I snuggled up against my pillows as I listened to her sing “Both Hands,” arguably one of my favorites of hers.

The first song of Ani’s that I remember hearing in high school courtesy of an excellent college radio station was “Shameless.” A soon I purchased “Dilate,” which I no longer own because I’m pretty sure a roommate “accidentally” got it mixed up in her CDs in college.

In high school, one night Best Friend Ever came over. She’s much more straight laced than I am with her musical tastes and always has been. And “Untouchable Face,” one of the greatest unrequited love songs I’ve ever heard, came on with its infamous curse-word ridden chorus and she looked at me and turned up her nose and said, “That is so, just, tacky.”

I remember listening to the scratchy guitars and Ani’s voice, which brims with every emotion in the book. I remember thinking, at age 16 or 17 that I knew what it was like to feel angry or sad or hurt. Because I didn’t have a date for a dance or because that guy over there was talking to someone else and just didn’t know I was alive. Listening to earnest songs about love and heartbreak, I was only slightly aware that I hadn’t reached the highs and lows of emotion.

I still haven’t reached the highest highs of love and the lowest lows of complete and total sadness. I’m hoping for the former and sure the latter comes along with it.