Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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In other words, all preparations are in order for The Wedding. What are your plans for April 28/29th?

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Before I threw myself into the ocean, giggling at my absurd doggy-paddling and tippy-toe bobbing lest I get my face wet; before I took my first picture of my toes in the sand (because when you’re alone you wind up with a lot of those pictures, I guess)- all I could think was, “What am I doing here?”

Not everyone can travel alone. A lot of people are shocked to hear about the trips I’ve taken and continue to take solo. They question my safety or how much fun I can possibly have. They give me the once over and accuse me of unseemly shenanigans and illicit beach-side hook-ups with strangers. And sometimes, they think [quite comically actually] that I’m brave.

The thing is, I don’t know that I’ve ever been scared to travel alone. I certainly can’t remember ever thinking that way at least. There does always seem to be an “Am I really doing this?” moment, but it quickly passes. This is what I’ve been wanting to do for as long as I can remember.

I grew up camping at national parks out west and going to Disney World and Florida beaches each year with my family. I vacationed the way they wanted to vacation, ate the food they wanted to eat, saw the towns and museums they wanted to see. I’m grateful for those experiences and memories, but I also spent the better part of my adolescence planning how I would do it instead one day. On my own terms.

Now that day is here- arrived a couple of years ago actually- and it’s become one of two things that I consistently do for myself in order to keep hold of sanity and happiness and to find optimism in the day-to-day. For whatever reason, knowing I have a trip on the horizon makes each day more bearable when all I want to do sometimes is yell at people to “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” as I did at the TV last night during The Marriage Ref. At times, the prospect of traveling is the only thing that can pull me out from the figurative (and sometimes literal) covers that I crawl under to hide.

But I didn’t wind up traveling alone overnight. It’s been a natural progression for me. First, learning to eat alone- breakfast, then lunch because they’re the easiest to manage. Sometimes I’d even venture out to a movie alone- matinees in the beginning, then Saturday nights amidst date night couples. Not long after that, I’d find myself going to a musical, the ballet, or the symphony- when you’re “only one,” you can get a surprisingly amazing seat even at the last minute. Somewhere in the midst of my twenties I realized that I’d rather enjoy the things I love alone than not be able to enjoy them at all simply because I might not be able to share them with someone else.

So I went. I ate those dinners and drank that wine. I applauded at the end of Avenue Q on my birthday. I cheered the ABT for their skill and beauty. I strolled through Central Park in the fall and skated at Rockefeller Plaza at Christmas. I toured London- the Tower and the Abbey. And I’ve now been to the D.R. three times. Alone, and not at all lonely.

But standing there on the beach at that moment, something about vacationing alone had changed for me. The solo traveler shtick didn’t feel the same as in years past. If traveling alone was a pair of comfortable go-to shoes, they suddenly pinched my feet. For the first time, I wanted someone to join me.

In the days that followed, I went on to enjoy my time in the sun, relearned the bachata, kept my top on, befriended the entire resort staff it seemed. But the whole while, I kept thinking of how much I wanted to be sharing it- the sunrise spot, the balcony rocking chairs, the early morning beachfront massage, even the terrible food at the lunch buffet- with him.

xoxo, nic

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Then, I read articles like this one wherein pinstriped British bankers were identified as leaning out their office windows yesterday, “taunting demonstrators and waving 10 pound notes at them.” Ten pound notes! HA! What’s that supposed to get them? A tall coffee and scone at Starbucks? At least put your money where your mouth is. Moxie indeed.

But it’s not just the British, it’s the French too. All week I’ve been listening to Morning Edition’s updates on those about-to-be-laid-off French factory workers who’ve been holding their bosses hostage- the third such instance in March alone. Gotta love the French. Storm the Bastille! Sacré bleu!

And as for us, well, we’re using coupons more (though maybe not as much as this person), we’re cutting back on our cable packages, our travel, even giving up hair and nail appointments. It’s all very vanilla and calm. Until some of us go stalking AIG executives at their Connecticut manses.*

What all of this tells me, is that the state of “things” has digressed so much that it’s like a pineapple upside down cake…all topsy-turvy and whatnot….except that someone came along and stole all the pineapples that were funding your retirement, then yachted into the sunset with Chiquita Banana. Where’s my Rec(depr)ession Shelter when I need it?

As someone who is paid in meatballs rather than real-person-dollars, someone who (let’s face it) pretty much lives paycheck to paycheck, doesn’t shop for clothes or shoes anymore, will be out of debt this year, and is saving for retirement (i.e. when I quit my “career” to work part-time to support myself); my take is that maybe the best any of us can do is live small and adequately, minimize our debt, and find a few savings options that offer multiple opportunities to offset market volatility. Did I just say that? Who am I?

See? Topsy-turvy.

*Yes, the reference to AIG is all very “last month,” but given our general “mehness” as a country, it was the most hot-headed example I could come up with. Where are our Boston Tea Parties when we need them?

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The caveat to that is that I’m actually doing quite well given the sadness of letting go. It’s been two months since our break up and in that time I’ve joined a gym, read a ridiculous amount of books, seen my friends and family more, completely redecorated my apartment, and begun planning my next big adventure across the pond. The last of which, ironically, also leads me toward “at this time last year.”

Because I want to go back. Desperately. And I can’t help but think about the circumstances and the man that brought me to London in the first place. While there were still squabbles and impatience, it was an amazing experience for which I will always be grateful to him.

Knowing this, my birthday will be very different this year from last. There will be no dancing with the Chapel-en-le-Frith Morris Men, no ancient cathedral and its stained glass windows to admire, no fog-filled walk before daybreak into the hills of Derbyshire, no fancy London hotels or dinners, no one like him to share it with. That I have these memories at all is bittersweet, but more milk than dark chocolate.

In their place there will be many friends both new and old, there will be cupcakes and a second viewing of the Sex and the City movie, and then, a visit to the farmer’s market for peonies, a hair appointment and mani-pedi, and a celebratory pubcrawl.

In truth, I look back at 27 with more happiness than sadness in my eyes and with excitement at the possibility of “by this time next year.” I have a feeling 28 will be a very different kind of year for me. And I think I like it.

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Cheers!

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