It’s Wedding Season

We’ve all heard the saying, “always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” Turn your head in any direction on the subway and you’re bound to see at least one  20-40something woman flipping through the latest 700 page wedding magazine.

I’d like to personalize the saying to “always the bridesmaid, not interested in being a bride (right now).” Listen, I’m 27 years old, sometimes going on 17, sometimes 37. After being a nomad for 4 years after undergrad,  I finally moved back home to my beloved Brooklyn last May.  Let me tell you, this year has been <insert positive adjective here>. The last thing I want right now is to add someone’s name on my lease, clear space in my overflowing closets, and spend $30 on dinner at Whole Foods. (It’s spring in NYC and I’m not cooking. )I’m thoroughly enjoying my singledom and all most of what comes with that title.

According to the 2010 US Census there are about 400,000 more women than men living in NYC. So not only can I never find my shoe size at a Nine West friends and family sale, but I have to fight 199,999 (I figure half of those women are dead er, married) other women for that Jon Hamm-Ryan Gosling-Gerard Butler lookalike? I’m not a mathematical genius by any stretch of the imagination but those odds are not really in my favor, are they? For a better visual, let’s go on a little trip through the 2011 history books.

In the past year, I’ve rekindled a 10-year long “flame” (it’s more like room temperature tap water), added to my PUP (physically unable to perform) list, became friendly with a neighbor who ended up in a maximum – security correctional facility (no I will not be your pen pal), exchanged phone numbers with a couple of people I never heard from again, had a St. Patrick’s Day one night stand, and somehow started talking to a man who had to have time traveled from the Depression Era. I figure I’m pretty great at getting attention but not keeping it.

Now that the weather is moving from dry heels to pastel toes I’m feeling optimistic about the man I’ll meet at a rooftop bar, sitting in the park, or walking his dog. I’m pretty sure that I will find myself smack dab in the middle of shenanigans, perils, or any other word for “adventure” my Depression Era friend would use, these next few months and the stories are going to be pretty hysterical.

Now, what was I saying? Oh…

“I don’t want you in my bed for an extended period of time, sir,  but your presence is requested on possibly more than one Saturday night – turned Sunday morning.”

Read up on TC.


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