colourful

Living each day as my last.

You know that feeling you have when a song you love and haven’t thought about in ages pops up in your ipod’s shuffle rotation after months of it lurking outside of your playlists?

That’s what I had on Saturday when I went to the Louise Blouin Foundation – a gallery in Notting Hill. When I arrived I discovered that they were showing an exhibition on Louise Nevelson entitled Dawns and Dusks.  Nevelson didn’t ring a bell for me until I stepped into the gallery and was transported back to 17 years of age in art class, working on a project that I haven’t thought about for years.  I still remember Mr. S challenging us to scavenge from the pile of discarded wood scraps and, like Nevelson, transform the rubbish into monochrome masterpieces.  The sculpture I hammered together was a collection of arrows on a triangular base. It only strikes me now that I completely disregarded the monochrome, painting each arrow in a different colour to make a collection of six ranging from a fiery hot arrow to a weathervane. The resulting piece was passionate and colourful and looked nothing like Nevelson’s subdued creations.

Once I got past my weird deja-vu-ish feeling, took a run through before the gallery was to close.  The curator’s comments and Nevelson’s quotes are still bopping around in my mind. Nevelson said, “I always wanted to show the world that art is everywhere, except it has to pass through a creative mind.” And further down the white walls, the vinyl application said that she often chose black because black is the colour that accepts all colours… and that white only accepts one. I can’t help but just think of the spiritual parallels… does this apply to dark and light?  Can light also accept all colours?

My favourite comment, though, is this:

“Her reputation as an artist has been enhanced by her colourful character on the New York art scene. She was known for her trademark fanciful headgear, and for having a strong ego – “I wouldn’t marry God if he asked me,” she once commented, and on another occasion noted: “I always thought, bluntly, that I was a glamorous, goddam exciting woman.”

Whatever floats Louise’s boat… but I’d have to say that I’m a colourful character and most definitely a glamorous, goddam exciting woman… and I’m pretty certain God would fancy that!

tango

Living each day as my last.

St. Mary’s Girlzone event “The One About Sex and Relationships” (looking at dating, singleness, dealing with abuse, sex for marrieds, body image, resolving conflict and lots more) could not have come at a better time. I was really psyched to meet more women my age and then fly by the seat of my jeans and go out for Tango lessons with a friend who also attended!

It was super refreshing to have women stand before me who were feminine, strong, smart, sensitive and interesting (my last week’s conference had a woman actually say, “I can’t believe men let us do the budgets”… not funny, even if it’s part of the comedy routine!). Plus we had amazing cupcakes and a curry! (for only £10 as opposed to £105… oh crap! the stupid blonde routine from the first conference REALLY is a hoax!!)

Some of the thoughts that aren’t necessarily new but great to hear again:
-Self loathing is limiting the impact we have upon the world

-Every time we repeat the same mistakes we’re just coming back to lessons we have not yet mastered

-One guy in a survey said he was looking for a smile that “makes [him] feel both dangerous and safe at the same time”

-A woman who was challenged to give a guy a chance, to take interest in his interests and act as if she loved him… 40 years later she recalls loving dangerously… and poses the question, what might your love bring out in someone? And how would you know unless you give him a chance?

-Always respect a person in a relationship so they walk away with a positive experience and aren’t harmed for the next person.

-Are we living as if we’re loved?

Not to get too philosophical, but as I was led backwards in circles around a room, I couldn’t help but think how relevant it all was… even more than just the leading and following perspective… for me, more, the relaxing and going with the flow!

romcom

Living each day as my last.

Valentine’s Day: fancy dress party as your fave romcom character!
(translation: dress up party as fave chick flick character)

Can you guess who I was???

Highlight of the night: Clint Eastwood chats me up twice… Laying it on of what he’s looking in a woman and marriage… How much we have in common… I think it’s in the bag, but then he admits that he’s interested in my Clueless friend Cher (who I styled down to the straw!). As if!

Just in case you were under a rock during the late 90’s, early ’00’s…

lbd

Living each day as my last.

My colleagues all think I went on a date tonight.

They noted my straightened hair, my lbd (long, black, oh-so-very-smart dress), and my amazing red peep-toe heels.

They asked, “Who is he? Where are you off to?”

I giggled, smiled… but wouldn’t say.

The thing is, I woke up so happy this morning from last night that I decided that I had to wear something that made me happy. And rather than dash all of their hopes, I eluded their questions.

So when my colleague T asks me tomorrow if I put out (can you believe the nerve!?)… I will giggle to myself… because only I (and you!) know that that lbd of mine was stripped off and placed on the peg for… the gynecologist for my check-up! (a woman)

p.s. I was just thinking about the gown I had to wear and the slit up the back… I held it shut as I walked around radiology, but considering that I had one of Victoria’s Secret Sexy Little Things on, it’s a shame I didn’t jump start the tickers of the old men in the waiting room by “mistakedly” tucking the gown the wrong way for a cheeky flash of the knickers pictured below!  Next time!!

bachelorette

29th December: Day 77 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Two years ago, at some point during the course of watching twenty-five men nibble sweets off my beloved colleague’s neck…lace, it occurred to me. What’s the point of having a bachelorette party when it’s too late to have fun? Why not do it now with no strings attached?

I filed this notion away, only to come back to it now that I was released from the prison otherwise known as Brussels. With two years of perspective and great wisdom, I realised that this brilliant night of celebrating singleness with reckless abandon was probably just the same thing as being a slut. And that I probably didn’t need a posse if I really wanted to up my snog tally. But still. I just set myself up for a “rose by any other name would still be a rose” response…. but I just couldn’t help thinking, “what the hell, why not!?” Especially since for the real bachelorette I would much prefer a great adventure with my very best friends free of any cheesy bridal paraphernalia.

So I began emailing my craziest NY friends… not just ones that I felt I was comfortable enough with to slip a rhinestone ring on and make a fool of myself in front of… but ones that would be on the front line, with a lifesaver t-shirt in hand, cheering me on.

And so, you may be wondering, just how many gorgeous NY men did I trick into smooching me for one last big hurrah?

Do you REALLY want to know?

It’s probably, actually more fun not to tell.

But I’ll tell you anyway. none. not one.

When push came to shove, four days after Christmas was really not the greatest timing for this all-important mission. Not if I wanted any friends there to be a part of the support team.

So instead, I had a really great night of drinks and work gossip with two of my very favourite NY work friends.

But I’m still not deterred…

rules

6th December: Day 55 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

In December I read a NY Times article that brought me back to my days of hunting and fishing in university. It was the much contested RULES. The ones that my sociology class analysed, all of my friends either followed or eschewed, and reviewers tacked on an asterisk and addendum to let readers know that the author was in the process of divorce as the book was going to print. And then the ones that seemingly worked for the author in her second hunting trip.

* 01: Be a “Creature” Unlike Any Other
* 02: Don’t Talk to a Man First (and Don’t Ask Him to Dance)
* 03: Don’t Stare at Men or Talk Too Much
* 04: Don’t Meet Him Halfway or Go Dutch on a Date
* 05: Don’t Call Him & Rarely Return His Calls[3]
* 06: Always End Phone Calls and dates First
* 07: Don’t Accept a Saturday Night Date after Wednesday
* 08: Fill Up Your Time before the Date
* 09: How to Act on Dates 1,2, & 3 End the date first especially if you like him.
* 10: How to Act on Dates 4 through Commitment Time
* 11: Always end the date first
* 12: Stop Dating Him if He Doesn’t Buy You a Romantic Gift for Your Birthday or Valentine’s Day
* 13: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week
* 14: No More than Casual Kissing on the First Date
* 15: Don’t Rush into Sex & Other Rules for Intimacy
* 16: Don’t Tell Him What to Do
* 17: Let Him Take the Lead[3]
* 18: Don’t Expect a Man to Change or Try to Change Him
* 19: Don’t Open Up Too Fast
* 20: Be Honest but Mysterious[3]
* 21: Accentuate the Positive & Other Rules for Personal Ads
* 22: Don’t Live with a Man (or Leave Your Things in His Apartment)
* 23: Don’t Date a Married Man
* 24: Slowly Involve Him in Your Family & Other Rules for Women with Children
* 25: Practice, Practice, Practice! (or, Getting Good at The Rules)
* 26: Even if You’re Engaged or Married, You Still Need The Rules
* 27: Do The Rules, Even when Your Friends & Parents Think It’s Nuts
* 28: Be Smart and Other Rules for Dating in High School
* 29: Take Care of Yourself and Other Rules for Dating in College
* 30: NEXT! & Other Rules for Dealing with Rejection
* 31: Don’t Discuss The Rules with Your Therapist.[3]
* 32: Rules May Be Pulled Out of Thin Air If the Situation Requires
* 33: Do The Rules and You’ll Live Happily Ever After!
* 34: Love Only Those Who Love You
* 35: Be Easy to Live With

Something about these rules are completely and utterly depressing when I read them in the list above.  The thing is that many of these things come naturally to me as I am a proponent of having my own life and not waiting around for a guy.  But when I see them listed out, I feel stressed.  They’re just so superficial.  Two dimensional.  I feel confined to packaging myself into a pretty exterior that’s hard to get.  But regardless of this fact, like Jane the hunter, I have internalised them to a certain extent.

Like when The Loser texted me on a Saturday night at 6:30, asking what I was up to and that his wallet had been stolen and he had no money until Monday.  Clearly the Rules would say not to text back had they known about text messages in 1995.  But even though the disapproval of the Rulemakers flashed quickly through my head, I didn’t need some stupid set of rules to know that I shouldn’t text back unless it was to say, “Hello Loser.  I’m so glad you texted me.  I am sitting here on this lovely Saturday night with my bulging wallet in hand, just waiting for your text message so I can take you out and spend all of my money. xx”

And then when I got a text from an eligible British bachelor on Saturday morning.  We hadn’t yet met, but he would be in my neck of the woods and fancied a pint if I was up for it.  And truth be told, I was already planning on being in Richmond during the afternoon as I searched high and low for a sparkly clutch.  So I broke rule number seven.  And after having a drink and receiving a text an hour after we parted ways, I texted back, surely breaking what the Rulemakers will advise in her next variation of rule five.

drama

3rd December: Day 52 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Whilst Bronchitis and I were in bed together last week, we watched The Holiday. Since then I’ve been thinking a bit about the scene where the charming old neighbour tells Kate Winslet that she needs to the leading lady in her life: (at about 1:30)

The thing is, I sometimes feel like my life is actually a movie.

And so, when I am out in public, staring absently ahead, lost in troubling thoughts set to Jon Foreman’s “Learning How to Die” or William Fitzsimmon’s “Funeral Dress”, I am in a dramatic scene.  And whilst I don’t try to be over the top, I just feel whatever it is that rushes over me.  Right there and then.  And sometimes a tear will slip down my cheeks.

It happened a few weeks ago.  My hands were full of clothes that I was about to donate.  I was thinking about little daily things.  And then I started thinking about a certain thing I didn’t know how to do.  And it hit me.  Of how hard it was to lose someone that I lost two years ago.  A person I thought I was over.  And before I knew it, a wave of loss and sadness came over me.  My lip was trembling, and the tears were coming.  I turned from chucking my trousers in the bin and though I tried to avoid their looks, I saw the construction workers notice my emotion.  It actually was the thing that put a smile on my face, the thought that perhaps they attributed the waterworks to separation anxiety from my beloved clothing.

And then it happened on Wednesday.  I was exasperated about waiting for twenty minute for my first bus in Putney, and then missing the second bus in Richmond.  I sat on the bus and was overcome by the feelings that had been creeping up for the few days prior.  The “I feel so lonely and miss Brussels and friends that I connect with and can spill my heart out to… and “when the hell am I going to have close British girlfriends!?” and even more, the depressing realisation that in my honesty and the process of giving up on my friend from Brussels, I’m losing a friend. And he’s not even noticing it. (oh God, even more a sign that I’m the “unloved walking wounded” that Kate was talking about!) And so, as I stared out the window and the bus nudged forward towards Kew, I let it be an internally dramatic moment of catharsis.

By the time I made it to my front door, the whole world hadn’t transformed, but I was relieved to have vented out those feelings… and with the release came a clarity that I need to make the shift from passive to active… and that this British friendship thing is one very long haul. The black tie efforts are commendable, but I need to do the thing I only recently noticed I never do: take the initiative and initiate a one-on-one meetings… And so, I opened up my laptop and began the stream of emails for weekend plans…

status

30th November: Day 49 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Facebook activity for Sunday:
Kerry is: home by the fire, with big, bad bronchitis
4 comments received on wall

Kerry is no longer single
10 comments received on wall from France, Belgium and the US
5 messages from the US
1 phone call from Belgium

Summary:
Deathbed status: mild concern.
Possibility of a relationship: collective sigh of relief heard round the world.

Reaction to admission that I haven’t been yet swept off my feet by a stud with an accent: sigh of disappointment, followed by mild interest at predicament.

Guy 1: The Loser. Have already mentioned him. But it’s been nearly 2 years and he still is after me. I should simply say: “I find it completely rude when you text people when we’re on a date. You are dull and make me make all of the conversation. You are racist and have made rude comments about virtually every group I know. You’re cheap and don’t pay on dates. And you should never, ever, venture into bathroom talk on a first date!”

But I haven’t been able to do this. I know it sounds crazy. But I’ve finally realised that when the going gets tough in the dating scene, it’s kind of nice to have someone, even a loser, chasing after me. And so I’ve been putting off slamming the door in his only mildly attractive face.

And then Guy 2: The Stalker. 6 emails in the course of 12 hours with propositions of things to do. Scary and claustrophobia-inducing.

I’ve been dragging my heels so long on giving up the little thrill of knowing that someone likes me that it was only The Stalker that made me finally do it… and kill two squawking birds with one stony status change.

And whilst The Loser was the first to comment on my change of status (probably more a sign of the fact that he lives on Facebook than his preoccupation with me) and how about a drink to hear all about it, he’s stepped back and the emails have slowed to a trickle from The Stalker.

Relationship possibilities: nil, but I think it’s going to be okay.

honesty

17th November: Day 36 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

I’ve been remembering Meredith’s painfully endearing words lately.  “Okay, here it is, your choice… it’s simple, her or me, and I’m sure she is really great. But Derek, I love you, in a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me, choose me, love me.”

I cringe, but my heart feels every agonizing word.  I understand acutely the urgent, breathy tumble of words. I see the string that attaches them for what it is. It’s the “now or never,” “don’t snip this thread or it will all fall apart” strand. I hear the trembling voice, as she is slowly stripping down, finally standing naked before him.

My words wouldn’t be exactly the same.  I would leave out the radio part.  The cake would definitely be chocolate, or carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.  But the tone would be the same.  The one that says, “I adore you.  In a really, really big I want to talk to you for hours, be your very best friend, wake up beside you, be your partner in crime and your biggest cheerleader way.  I want you standing at the finish line of my next triathlon, bidding me over the line.  I want you cheering me on as I head off on the scary paths of photography and writing.”  And then those excruciatingly vulnerable (or as some say, pathetic) words: “so pick me, choose me, love me.”

But I can’t say them.  It’s been thirteen months since we met in Brussels.  Thirteen months of little details filling in the picture of who he really is as our friendship develops…. of going on dates with other men, but not taking the bait on any of them…. of being optimistic that things could change.  And thirteen months of really trying to ignore the idea of “her” and hoping beyond hope.

I haven’t wanted to give away the exhilarating bits of excitement.  Even more, I haven’t wanted to give up the friendship.  But the honesty that I have been sprinting away from is slowly gaining on me.  The valleys that I’ve been running through have become deeper and lonelier and not just a place that I pass through on the way to a peak.

The thing is, I haven’t known how to move on.  In the past I’ve always been hurt by something the other has done.  But I don’t want to have to touch the stove and recoil to learn that it’s hot.  I don’t want to be a child, I want to be a woman.  I want to be able to move on without being rejected.   But I’ve had no idea how.

So I gave myself a month.   The month of November would be my month to thrash it out.  To detox and get rid of the feelings.  Whatever the hell I did, I needed to do the seemingly impossible and come out the other side of the calendar page with my heart detached.

All of my initial thoughts, though, seemed along the lines of the stovetop thinking.  I kept thinking that I just might have to hurt myself intentionally to move on.  And then, miraculously, my art projects began to bubble up and compete for my attention.   They began filling the space that could be absorbed by the wet blanket otherwise known as the “super-depressing-he-doesn’t-like-me” thoughts.  Instead, I just have “slightly-depressing-and-very-melancholy-this-isn’t-going-to-happen-but-if-I’m-lucky-I’ll-move-on-and-he’ll-never-find-out” thoughts.  My focus shift from him to me.  And really, I just wanted to stop feeling like someone was scooping my heart out with a melon baller.

And I think the moment happened tonight in the gym.  I was walking into the locker room and it hit me.  Three words.

I give up.

I said them over and over again.

I give up.  I give up.  I give up.  I give up.  I give up.  I give up.  I give up.  I give up.

I pedaled home.  Tears came down my cheeks as I said the words to myself again.

I give up.

girl

14th November: Day 33 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

You will never guess what I did.

Ok, let me give you a hint…

Oh yes I did.

Ok, fine, but I thought about it.

And then dreamt about it.

The girl, you ask?

You ask wrong.

The WOMAN, BBC 2’s Mary Queen of Shops.

Window displays at Harrods + TopShop displays + thrusting Harvey Nichols forward as the fashion mecca that it now is + BBC’s Absolutely Fabulous = “What Mary doesn’t know about shops isn’t worth knowing.”

Or more appropriately = settling into the couch at work, bobbing her bob, rolling her eyes and declaring, “It smells like my dog wee-ed in this couch.” + sending me off for tea + round two for water.

And then came the dream. Which never would had the fifty-year-old fashionista as the subject if it wasn’t just after my event and if I wasn’t thinking in a very general sense about Katy Perry’s proclivity.

A bunch of work mates and I were walking down a dark, wide street, on our way for drinks while on site. She strutted toward me and said she needed to talk to me. The “ooooooh’s” from the guys was embarrassingly loud.

I followed her down an alley.

My back up against the brick wall, she leaned forward and told me she wanted to kiss me.

“Oh God,” I thought, pressing further against the brick wall, “Do I really have to?”

And then I did it. I squeezed my eyes closed, held my breath, and leaned forward to get it over as quickly as possible.

I pressed my lips against hers. And then she pulled back. And she kissed me on each cheek, rolled her eyes and said, “I meant on the cheek!”

I pulled back, completely and utterly mortified.

And then I woke up.

Thank God.

scavenger

13th November: Day 32 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Just a normal day at work. Sent out on a hunt to haul back a pigeon, a receipt for £1.57, a costume for the raw egg who was on board for the journey, photos of a builder’s bum, us jammed into a black photo booth, and best of all, what I scavenged…

mate

7th November: Day 26 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

This is one of the “what the hell, why not” ’s… that is always accompanied by steadily rising undulations in my tummy.

A text arrived to my Blackberry last night from my friend A. Since the dust was now settling from my event, she thought it was very important that I attend “Date My Mate” with her. The hitch: I had to appear with a single male by my side that I didn’t want to date. And I had to do it in 24 hours!

In the midst of my 3-2-1-GO! scramble I managed to rustle up two eligible bachelors. Upon arrival at the dark smoky-wooded, sophisticated yet understated modern members club, Shoreditch House, I popped out of the elevator into the lofty Biscuit Tin and my date and I did a mutual ditch.

Was it a success? I wasn’t so convinced, until A told me how impressed she to was turn around to speak to me and see me off, working the room (with a big smile as J in Chicago emailed me seconds before I stepped through the door that I looked FHAH…F***ing Hot As Hell) . Regardless of some of the cringe-worthy conversations and complete duds, I was out there. Most successful plan of attack: finding the men talking between themselves, tell them they are being very naughty keeping to themselves… Result: me, surrounded by a group of guys, with the ice broken! …and being told that “naughty” in my American accent sounds oh-so-sexy!? Right.

masquerade

24th October: Day 12 of doing one thing I wouldn’t have done if I wasn’t living that day as my last.

I know what you’re thinking.  A lot of the things I’ve been doing are little.  So on Friday I did something crazy and, if I may say so myself, courageous…. I went on a blind date to a masquerade ball.

I have to admit that I only gradually realised what I was getting into… and the brilliance of it all.  My friend M emailed me about his flatmate’s premier passes to the Absolut Launch party.  And then I was told that it was a masquerade party…. which could be very odd for a blind date (how do I find him!?)… or really fun if you both get into it… or extremely convenient if his mask turns out to be better looking than his face, as long as he digs wearing the mask.

In reality it was like vintage fashion wonderland meets thrift store bonanza meets trendy hipster party meets massive dress up extravaganza.  I left my flat with my amazing gray dress clinging to my every curve, ready to make its first appearance after sitting in my closet for a year and a half, waiting for me to muster the guts to wear such a tiny size.

As soon as I arrived in Shoreditch, took off my coat and sampled a pear & ginger cocktail, I was hitting the vintage clothes rails that were set up in this studio, picking out a dress for the party.  I squeezed amidst a bunch of girls in their knickers behind the partition that later fell over and exposed everyone behind it (not me!) and stepped out in a crazy strapless sequined black and blue number… thank God it fit! …. ready to begin accessorizing!

Oh yes, and the date part of it.  Definitely fun! (you only get a picture this one time because the mask really does make him look entirely different! Oh and no facebook comments, please!)

tdh

20th October: Day 8 of doing one thing I wouldn’t have done if I wasn’t living that day as my last.

So, this venture of online dating. I have to admit, I’ve just been sitting back and letting the emails come in. Some of them are quite frightening. Beyond the bad punctuation and horrific typos, there are lines like, “I want to get to know you much, much better,” that aren’t exactly Silence of the Lambs-creepiness, but still make my skin crawl.

I haven’t spent much time on the site, but my initial search before I gave in my credit card details turned up an utterly tall, dark and handsome man who seemed interesting, educated, athletic and thoughtful and with all of this, quite persuasive in getting me to part with 17 quid. When membership came and I started receiving my Hannibal Lecter-inspired emails, it led to a wistful return to H’s profile page. Had he already been snatched up? Would he ever find my page? Would I only receive emails from scary people and never have a chance with guys like this?

And then the obvious occurred to me. I could email him. AHH! The hottest guy on the site! …I was about to back-burner this little pot of bubbling emotions when in my late night daze, the thought came to me… What the hell!? Why not!?

And so I did it before I had more time to think it through. I sent a short email to Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome and wondered what this build up would lead to… The last time I had a crush from afar on a tdh was during mon sejour a Aix-en-Provence. For months, I admired the Nautica-ad-esque Christophe, who worked at Papetrie Michel on Cours Mirabeau. For a few months I made sporadic trips for paints and brushes, always seeing him from a distance, entirely too shy to open my mouth. My host mom, M, was extremely amused, coaxing me to be “coquette” and ask him out. But I never even spoke to him.

The year after, when I returned, M told me I couldn’t have dinner that night if I didn’t march my bum down there, ask for an art supply in the farthest corner of the art shop, et parle avec lui. I wasn’t convinced that it would work, but I wasn’t about to miss one of M’s meals. So I staked out the store, found the most remote art product and hesitantly approached him. The French words in my very American accent tumbled out. And his French words, in his surprisingly unattractive nasal accent, came back at me. As well as his preoccupation and complete disinterest in allowing the flow of words to continue. Such amazing build up. Such an anticlimactic exchange. But such a good dinner that night.

To come back to the man on the other side of the internet, you may have guessed where this story is going. I got a response the next day. And it was really dull. And I was so not surprised…

ventures

16th October: Day 4 of doing one thing I wouldn’t have done if I wasn’t living that day as my last.

A few weeks go during my first venture into the very fabulous Selfridges I got a text from the guy my friends affectionately call The Loser. It was Saturday afternoon and he wanted to know if I would go to the cinema with him. I hesitated. Not that I was playing the rules, but to accept for the same night? Even more, I was shopping with one of my favorite colleagues, M, who I knew would slap me if she knew I went out with The Loser again. And then there was my sister and best friends. They had already told me to ditch him. But wouldn’t going to the cinema be more fun than sitting at home?

So I said yes. And had lots of fun getting ready. And then had a super anti-climactic time.

And so this whole “living once” craziness made me flick to a networking and dating site. I hate these things. I hate the false intimacy of drawn out email interchanges. I hate feeling like a b*tch as I inevitably judge profiles. I hate admitting that I haven’t found someone on my own. But I love meeting new people. And am psyched about the idea of going on some fun dates… so I did it! ahhhh! oh god… here we go.