This past weekend was an ideal scene out of Sex and the City. I had a typical girly couple of days off: enjoyed my free time, hung out with some friends, and I even got a cat. It was great; I really got to love spending time with myself until Sunday night rolled around and it made me realize that my life was in a slightly different spot than some of my peers – who are now happily engaged and/or married and I’m stuck at home with a cat who can’t even meow. Let me explain.
I have Fridays off, so I was looking forward to the day of picking up my kitten from the local shelter who I already visited previously. As I’m going to my pick up my fur baby, my day twists in some frustration because a couple of the animal shelter people weren’t providing the best customer service. As I’m waiting for a solid 30 minutes while my car is illegally parked with the hazards on, I’m running back and forth to make sure that NYPD isn’t doing their finest of ticketing every car possible. Lucky for me, I have no ticket but my battery dies and I have to flag someone down to give me a jump. Well, the people are nicer than you’d expect, but most people think that you’re just standing around aimlessly flailing like a crazy person. Nonetheless, despite my car trouble, rude shelter people, and now a thundering rainstorm, I manage to get my kitten (properly named Rainstorm), and roll home feeling quite accomplished. Afterwards, I enjoyed a glass of wine with a close friend.
Saturday was spent with friends. One of my close buddies and I went out for brunch. After picking away at my expensive, bougie-ass, uptown, blueberry pancakes, we realized all of the girl friends who were out enjoying the day. It was all about female friendships. Men were nowhere in sight. It was rewarding in a sense because we were uplifting one another that much – great conversations, gorgeous women, but who were all probably single because none of us were out forcing some man to go apple picking with us. Nonetheless, the night came, three of us went out, had wine. Went home, slept.
Sunday gave me a wakeup call. I had ping after ping after ping of my friends’ announcements of wedding engagements. One of my old co-workers even got married. I was thrilled, ecstatic, happy! At least four couples I knew were either promising to make a vow in the future or already took the step for an endless path together. And where was I? At home with a fucking cat. While everyone else had some amazing romantic story to share of their weekend, what did I have? A cat and a glass of wine.
Really, is this what my life has become? I’m going to be THAT lady?
Whenever I think of the cat lady stereotype, I always envision The Simpsons psychopath hurling her cats at passer-bys without a lick of comprehensible English spewing from her lips. Is this my destiny? At one point even she was accomplished until someone ticked her off. Regardless of how crazy she may seem.
Nonetheless, we are at that point in our lives (at least I am…and probably the rest of you reading this blog) where everyone is getting married. They pass us up, post those absolutely adorable, shitty ass engagement photos that make you wonder where the hell you went wrong with your adult life. And it makes you wonder if you should feel guilty about not having a consistent significant other in your life with whom to be vulnerable and share your hopes and dreams.
Instead, I’ve also become that single friend who the coupled friends want to hook up with someone they know. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a couple. It could be one of my other single friends trying to set me up with someone who they didn’t find quite worthy for themselves; and hence thought that I would be the perfect victim.
But I’m not alone. Those other women sitting at brunch with their friends, walking along the urban streets sharing laughs with their girls, beautiful and passionate with life, where do their hopes and dreams fall when on the search for their significant other? Do they just live life carelessly and if “he” comes along, then so be it? Or do they pass the time with uppity brunches and shopping to feel more glamorous and “in the moment”?
I now understand Waiting to Exhale Savannah’s dependency on her cat. (Whitney Houston’s character. Read the book; the cat wasn’t in the movie.) Overall, men ain’t shit. I just enjoy my job and paying bills on time because everyone else pisses me off. Maybe that’s why I’m not married to the first schmuck that came my way. In the meantime, I’d rather clean my cat’s litter box. Well, at least for now.