Cuffing Season is well under production and while some of us are boo’d up at least until the initial season of Westworld ends, the remainder of us are out here living the single life. And for most, it’s not that damn bad.
Your botched bangs are finally growing out.
Your skin is clearer than it’s ever been in months.
Your butt is something a peach wish it could make an emoji out of.
For the first time in a long, work makes sense and you’re completely focused on your career.
You’re closer than ever to the people who matter most and genuinely want the best.
Life. is. lit. Although lit is a term that could kind of go, but it just works.
Considering things are good and can’t go down faster than the upcoming state of America heels on New Year’s Eve, you’re okay with the idea of entertaining a companion of sorts. That is, until THEY arrive.
That’s right–you know them, I know them, and we ALL hate them.
It was shortly after my 21st birthday and into the wee hours of the morning when it first happened.
Shooting to sit up straight in the center of my bed, suddenly I found myself overwhelmed with the sense of immense pressure pain that took over the left side of my chest and arm. The more I tried to figure out what was happening under the light of the red glow from my alarm clock that read 3:02AM, the harder it was for me to catch my breath.
Jesus, am I dying?? Falling under demon possession? It is technically “The Witching Hour“.
This is why you shouldn’t watch Horror films before bed, kids.
The only thing in that moment that made sense was to get up and begin pacing the room harder than James Brown at the Boston Garden. BIG mistake.
The feeling only intensified and left me running in blind panic to my grandfather’s room and announce that I was having a heart attack. Known to be slightly overdramatic a little quick to conclusions at that age, my gramps decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. And a Bayer, because “that’s what people his age do” in moments of this crisis. Nothing. After ugly crying through describing more symptoms, I was then rushed to the hospital where after countless questions, breathing techniques and medication I learned I had a full-blown anxiety attack.
While majority of anxiety issues can be situational, the cause of my abrupt attack was similar and a slow build. I was coming up on the one year death anniversary of my grandmother who raised me, working in a toxic environment with even more toxic friends to match outside the workplace, under financial pressure to help with extended family and eating and drinking like garbage to cope with it all. Roll it up into one, big, ugly ball of panic and SURPRISE!
Overall when it comes to reading advice on being forever alone single, dealing with men and dating/relationship advice, it normally goes in one little drunken ear and out the other.
Which the fact that I don’t pay much attention to any of these is most likely my problem today.
I just prefer to let life be the real teacher. Nothing can teach you like the experience of your own. And from random conversations with that one aunt.
While being told that wearing more camisoles and brightly colored cardigans will make you appear more friendly and less intimidating to latch you a man are eyeroll worthy, the advice columns about break-ups are usually the ones that are the fucking worst. Sure, some can be inspiring or thought provoking, but then there are others that troll in with advice like:
EAT YOUR FEELINGS
SPILL ALL THE DETAILS OF THE BREAK-UP
TAKE A SUPER WILD TRIP WITH YOUR GIRLFRIENDS
and the goddamn Nickelback worst:
GET UNDER A NEW GUY TO GET OVER THE OLD ONE
Now, I almost wish that this person that recently made news read at LEAST that hot mess bundle of advice, because she clearly didn’t read the ones that were for sane people. Let’s just call her….Felicia.
That’s 121,669 shades of NO DAMN MA’AM. In a span of seven days.
You should call NO ONE 77,639 times in one week. NOT. ONE. SOUL. Not work related people, not your mama, not your amazing sibling, not Jake from State Farm, not your best friend from childhood, not Tyrone, not your fabulous friend that gets even more fabulous after they’ve have a few cocktails, not the pizza place, not even on Jesus. He has enough on his plate, sis.
Clearly you never read a break up tip post-it let alone an actual column, or owned an Beyonce‘ album, or had a heart to heart with someone or been forced to watch He’s Just Not That Into You with a girlfriend on a drunken Saturday night.
So, thanks for the inspiration on breaking this down, and this is for you Felicia.
I think it’s safe to say that the time for my hiatus needs to and has come to an end. I’ve had enough of life’s busy schedule and unfortunately to the disappointment of my family and small gang of hopefully romantic friends it is not due to “having found a man”.
And with the hiatus over I’m just in time considering last week marked the “first day” of Spring.
However it’s still cold as fuck outside.
That annoyance means it could only be time for a new edition of Peeve This: The Spring Edition.
We chose to meet up at a bar/dance hall where upon my arrival I was greeted with a huge hug and then taken by the hand to pay my entry in and then to the bar for a drink.My new friend was already established as a good looking guy from his profile and talking online, but none of that did him justice compared to what he was in person. From his Midwestern accent to his bright Hazel eyes to his quick wit responses and sense of humor that scarily seemed to match mine it was safe to say I was smitten kittens. Shit: I was becoming. THAT. GIRL.
After talking about each other’s week and a quick dance we then went to meet outside with the friends of my new friend, where I was jokingly introduced as his girlfriend. It was funny, hopefully one day reigning to be true, and cute—mostly because I knew he was joking. If someone like wine guy had did it, it would have been creepy because trust he’d mean every bit of that shit.