Isn’t it funny that when you’re a child, all you ever thought about was growing up? You daydreamed about reaching the age when you could finally go to college, buy your own place, drive a fancy car, marry the man of your dreams and land the perfect job. There was nothing more that you wanted. Now, at the age of 29, I only have one word for my crazy little self. Delusional. Naïve and delusional. I constantly find myself reminiscing about being 10 years old again. My only fear was whether my best friend was going to be at school that day or whether that cute boy in 7th grade would notice the way I did my hair that morning. These days, the fear had shifted. It still had to do with boys but this time it was a fear that I was never going to own anything for the rest of my life. Thanks to my ex-husband I am up to my ears in debt. I’m single with a dead-end office job, living in a one-bedroom apartment where the walls are a disgusting yellow that reminds me of the colour that egg yolks go when you cook them too long and my best friend is a fat cat that belongs to a negligent owner in the building across from mine. I wonder what kind of look my 10-year-old self would be giving me right now. I could picture her, hair split into two ponytails with red ribbons on the ends, her left eyebrow raised.
Apart from the debt catastrophe, single life is much better than I ever anticipated. Especially in New York; it’s so easy to meet people. Like the naked, shaggy-haired lawyer currently sprawled in between the cotton sheets I had splurged on last week. I’ve been sitting up in bed next to him with my knees drawn up to my chest for what seems like hours. A hot chocolate warms my palms - I don’t understand coffee people – and the morning news has nothing interesting to report other than Kim Kardashian’s latest photo shoot. Lawyer boy hasn’t moved a muscle since I woke up – I know, I don’t even remember his name – I bite my lip when I realise how awful that sounds. I wiped away that thought, remembering the vow I made to myself a few days after I caught my best friend in this exact bed with my husband. I had reached the stage where I knew I could have power over men, instead of vice versa. I could be the woman I wanted to be no matter what; no man was going to get in the way of that again. Gone are the days where I would open up my heart and soul to the good-looking guy who smiled at me. Too many times I’ve gone through the same, consistent torment, humiliation and aching of this thing we call love. For me, I haven’t glimpsed it coming back my way. Sure, I knew how to love, how to give my all, how to be the woman a man deserves. Unfortunately, there hasn’t been one man that I deserved; they have all let me down in one way or another. I’ve recently come to the realisation that I can do better. I am going to grab a great, big, heavy chain, one with an enormous padlock on it. I will wrap it around my heart, lock it and watch the key sink to the bottom of the ocean where it can never be found. Wow, that was deep. No pun intended.
Anyway, lawyer boy was nothing different. He didn’t win over any clichés and he definitely made it clear what he wanted the first moment he laid eyes on me down at O’Malley’s last night. I can always tell when they first look at me. Sometimes they will maintain eye contact to give you the false pretense that they had no intention of looking down at your breasts and when you look away for a brief second they will pounce at the opportunity and take a good hard look. That’s exactly what lawyer boy was like. But I didn’t mind. Before Tiff and I even got to O’Malley’s I was two tequila shots and 4 Vodka Red Bulls down and it had been about 3 months since I’d even laid hands on the opposite sex. I’ll admit, I wanted it bad. After Tiff subtly sidled away and left the two of us alone his first line was “Can I buy you a drink?” Like, c’mon! There was cliché number one. He was tall, brunette and had a fuck-me smile. Cliché number two. I can imagine my sober self from that night with a notebook and pen in her hand crossing off her list of clichés, all the while shooting me a hesitant look. She could make a list that would stretch on for miles.
I came crashing back to reality when I suddenly felt a stir in the sheets. Then I heard a groan, one of those fake ones that you make when you’ve been pretending to be asleep and can’t take it anymore. The fuck-me smile emerged from underneath my sheets. “Good morning, beautiful.” He mumbled. Cliché number three. I am now joining in with my sober self, crossing off my list. I smile blankly in response, clutching my mug with both hands. He sits up and yawns and the sheets fall down from his chest to his lap. I must say, I picked up a hunk. He was definitely a morning person by the way he looked. His hair was immaculate, bags under his eyes were minimal and he smelled like the cologne that lured me to him last night. Before I could take another sip of my hot chocolate he was searching frantically for his shirt while struggling to put one leg into his jeans. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Going somewhere?” I asked anyway. “Yeah. I have to, uh…have to, um…run errands this morning. Work stuff.” Errands, really? I hated that excuse but I didn’t care, I just wanted him gone. I didn’t reply but watched him fasten the top button of his shirt. I hate that look; it screams wanna-be hipster. Just before I was about to start planning my morning and forget about lawyer boy, he leaned over to my side of the bed and planted a wet kiss on my lips, the smell of morning breath and remnants of tequila made my throat clench. “Was fun, last night.” And with one quick flash of that smile he was out of my apartment door, closing it ever so quietly, leaving a stillness lingering around the room. No, I did not feel regret, shame or anything else that falls into that category. I refused to let it show.
