But…

As I wile away the hours at work or on the couch with one Miss Wendy Lou Who, I know that this solitude is temporary. I’m getting out there and making more plans with friends again. I’m settling into my new place and figuring out what kind of kitchen table I want and where to hang things on the walls. I’m trying. I haven’t given up.

And as for boys? Well, I may be more cynical than is right or good for someone with my deep-rooted romantic longings, but I still believe in love. I may criticize, poke fun, question, doubt, and heckle; but underpinning all of that is the desire to be with my own special someone. To flirt. To catch his interest and hold it. To be kissed. To be touched. To tumble into bed. To feel love. To be loved.

And I will. This Christmas, I may be single again, but who knows where next Christmas will find me?

I’ll allow that such a sentiment may seem “hopeful,” but in fact it’s more simple than that. This single girl’s heart recognizes the inevitability that someone who wants to love and be loved someday will find it. Again.

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She takes after her mom in the "activity" department.

Okay, so maybe I’m not the most athletic of persons (I may have misspelled athletic before spell checking this post). And okay, sure, neither is my dog, Wendy. But, what better way can she and I support the local animal shelter than to participate in their 8K run/ 4K walk later this month? Yes, you read that right. We’re going to actually exercise…in the name of charity!

PAWS, for those of you not already familiar, is Chicago’s largest no-kill animal shelter and is where I adopted Wendy last Christmas. She was one of the dogs featured in their “Twelve Strays of Christmas” last December. The moment I saw her picture online with those damn inquisitive eyes of hers, the moment I began to brainstorm names for her, I knew I was going there straightaway after work. I can’t believe it’s been nine months since that fateful day!

In that time, not a day has gone by that I haven’t marveled at just how well suited Wendy and I are for each other. Besties! Soul mates! And not a day has gone by that I haven’t felt grateful to PAWS for saving her from the city’s animal control where she’d been taken after being captured as a stray. Some things really are just meant to be.

Together, Wendy and I plan to walk in gratitude to and in support of PAWS on September 25 in their annual fundraiser, Run for Their Lives. All money we raise will go toward PAWS Chicago’s targeted spay/neuter, innovative adoption, and community outreach programs. If you can, please support Wendy and I by donating toward our goal of $1000. We, along with the doggies and kitties of Chicago, thank you for whatever you can give.

Also, there’s going to be a costume contest and we will be participating! Right now, I’m thinking Snow White, but there’s also a cute sailor dress I have my eye on. I promise pictures to those who donate!

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The other day, someone asked me what I did over the weekend. After thinking long and hard (TWSS), I realized holy fuck. I had bacon on three separate occasions within 24 hours (on a burger, straight from the frying pan & sans eggs, and in my mac and cheese). I continued to think long and hard about whether to actually share this feat. Would it be worse to plead forgetfulness to hide my shame (“Oh, yeah, this weekend? I think I took a nap…or something?”) or proudly parade my inadvertent Bacon Fest 2011? Decisions decisions…

During the 20SB Summit, I found myself joking A LOT about being “grandfathered-in” to the community. Joking. But utterly serious. I belong dammit. Don’t you question me, you young whipper-snappers! Never mind that the term “grandfathered-in” bespeaks all things crotchety and old.

I now live in fear of the kidney stone redux that the Internet tells me I am 95% likely to experience in my lifetime. My fear is not so great that I will give up drinking tea or choosing soy milk however. 

I recently realized that I put my underroos on inside out. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I shrugged and continued to wear them that way. I should add that this was the second time in a week I’d been bested by the challenges of wearing one’s clothing right side out. Holla!

During one of my awesomesauce insomnia bouts, I wound up googling “dog ate a silverfish now what” to find out if that’s bad. I went on to wonder if the presence (or previous presence as it were) of said silverfish on the tile floor meant that the dude and I are slobs who live in squalor. Are we “dirty people”? [BF: Yo, if you're reading this, don't answer that because we both know the answer but they don't.]

I am genuinely considering getting a red streak put into my hair later this week. Because, why not? I dye my hair brunette as it is, have for years, but am thinking it could use a little something. Like a streak of fire engine red! I mean, if you can’t dye a red streak into your hair at 31, when can you? #RedStreakFTW!

This conversation happened at work the other day…. Emo: “I can’t believe I showered for this.” Me: “Don’t worry; I didn’t.” And scene.

What can I say? This is what it’s come to….I’m clearly living The Dream. And my thirties? All they’re cracked up to be. Obviously.

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There are perhaps no “right” words to write about what the last three months have brought to both of our lives. With or without meaning to, my boyfriend and I both placed expectations upon what living together would be- me, naïvely but in good faith, and he, apparently feeling coerced and knowing all too well what for-the-worse-changes lay in store. Now both of us have reached the conclusion, have actually vocalized, that the decision to live together has irrevocably destroyed what happiness we had left together and has been a certain mistake.

In the beginning, in the early days of my unpacking, of our finding a routine within the newly shared living space, I had tears of disappointment and sadness. I grieved for the loss of what I hoped this next step in my relationship, in my life, would be like. The disillusionment that it didn’t turn out to be what it was “supposed to be” would come later, and not without a stopover to rage and anger. The sullen recognition that I have no home would develop by week six and carry forward. The slap in the face that would be his landlord’s sudden awareness of my presence would land after every fiber of my being already felt unwelcome, unwanted. Just when I didn’t think it could get any worse.

I began as the live-in girlfriend whose addition of belongings caused claustrophobia. I became a pariah within the apartment and the building itself without much understanding of how I had imposed upon or disrespected. I grew into the role of roommate, of boarder, and failed at holding up what end of the bargain I was given. I hit rock bottom as a proverbial squatter; an illegal alien in what is supposed to be “home.”

The embarrassing truth is that I am financially challenged to actively participate in the upkeep of the household- initially because of my own irresponsibility and now owing to my boyfriend’s determination that I build myself some “cushion” from which to provide a Plan B for myself or in case of emergency for us both. It would be completely and unfailingly generous on his part to allow me to live rent free, except for the sense of obligation it has assigned me and the inequality within which I now find myself caged. I would rather be poor and contributing than financially stable and an unwelcome drain upon this household.

I am, however, at liberty to free myself- that realization does not escape me. But the challenges that any couple faces in living together are difficult to separate from the challenges of our relationship itself. Is this the nail on the coffin? Did we somehow miss the dropping of the other shoe? Have “we” jumped the shark?

There is of course the loss of romance. The loss of shared interests. The complete and exasperatingly long term lack of affection. The mutual acceptance of our limited communication.  The inability to share in much laughter or fun with one another. The waning respect. The seeking of happiness in other places. And yet, there is still- still- a belief that things could be better, could be improved if not completely mended,  if only we knew how. If only.

These may not be the “right” words to articulate what these three months have been, but they are undeniably my words. Even as I claim them as my own and acknowledge that he invariably would also have his own, I desire to wash them away and hit “delete.” I find that rehashing the details and dwelling upon them is no longer productive. The decision, the mistake, was made. It’s what we do with each day forward that matters.

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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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It has not escaped my notice that I still have not written about moving in with my boyfriend; about the move itself, the changes that living together has brought (or not brought rather), nor the state of “things.” I will. I almost have. But not yet.

Instead, I simply wish to say thank you for the thoughtfully kind emails, tweets, and texts that so many of you have sent over the past month. Although I’m not always the quickest in replying to them, I have read each and every message. I continue to keep your words close and reread them often, pulling them from a place of hope in my heart where they reside.

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Packing, packing, and more packing of the apartment I called home for six years. A last weekend with my mom before things became ever more “we.” A trip to Las Vegas for Bloggers in Sin City where so many new friends were made. A bout with food poisoning. Moving Day. Unpacking and procuring a storage unit for 2/3 of my remaining belongings. My 31st birthday. New attempts to define “home.”

I want to write about all of it. Every last thing. I wan’t to share pictures and stories and friendships with you. I want to discuss the books and articles I’ve been reading lately that have made such an impact on me. I want to articulate exactly what my heart is telling me in conflict with my mind. I want to write again like I used to. I will.

For now, I’ll simply share this: as I stepped outside to walk Wendy this morning during a brief lull in the storm, I exhaled audibly. I paused and let the cooler air engulf me. It was almost calming in a way. I took in the city’s morning bustle, dampened and soaked by the rain. And I felt like, if only for that moment, I could breathe again.

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