The “Go-To Pants”

Looking back over my single years, I remember the expression F.P., meaning Fat Potential. Apparently some guys look at extenuating factors before tying the knot. It can be said that a woman will one day resemble her mother. This did not worry me; in fact, I think it granted me some points in the Fat Potential category. My mother has always been small and I was gifted with her quick metabolism. My only detriment is that I rely on it too heavily, but that is because I do not care to work out. It’s not like I detest it, I just do not like it. So, whenever I am thinking about working out I run it through a very stringent test.

1)      Have I downloaded new music on my ipod? If not, that takes priority.

2)      Is it happy hour? Working out between 4 and 6 is not a good window for me.

3)      What did I eat today? Were there too few calories to sustain a workout, or is it really needed.

4)      Is my DVR over-flowing? If I do not watch the shows and delete them they will be gone forever. Travesty.

My test has rarely failed me. Until Friday, then the bottom fell out of my system, or rather my bottom. All it took was a glimpse in the mirror before hopping in the shower. I tell myself that the lighting was poor, I was bloated, and summer is still months away, but I am no longer buying any of it. I know that my time is now. I always wonder how people get to be 700 pounds. At some point they probably look at themselves and say, I need to do something, the time is now, but then a re-run of CSI comes on and they return to their previous state of depression. I am nowhere near 700 pounds, so for me it is a matter of laziness rather than depression. So today I kick up my workout plan. No more running twice a week with my dog. The plan was to run two miles every other day, but that never amounted to more than 3 days a week (which makes sense if you do the math). However, two to three days is not getting the job done.

                I always thought my clothes would determine my workout (a key detail in my previous system). Every woman has a pair of “go-to pants.” When everything feels tight, you naturally gravitate to your go-to pants. That in itself just reminds a person to tighten up the reigns a bit. Avoid buffets, make the switch from red wine to chardonnay, and park a little further from the store. That should suffice. Unfortunately there comes a time when that option is eliminated. Case in point: You know it’s bad when you can no longer go to the go-to pants. So when did my logical system fail me? I still fit in my go-to pants, running two miles is no walk in the park, and my legs do feel firmer. So why do I look like such a fat a** in the mirror (note: bathroom mirror with unflattering lighting). The only explanation that I can fathom is loop-holes. My body, the laziest part of me, figured out how to beat the system. It put the weight on around my checkpoints. A little bulge here, some extra cellulite on the butt, a misshapen thigh, and an elongated tummy has taken the hit. Who is left to suffer? My husband? Maybe. My sex life? Probably. So here I am, cursing my once reliable go-to pants, sucking in, and planning my life around my evening workout—as opposed to the other way around. Is it just my age? Am I that lazy? Has my metabolism really slowed, or have I? Either way, I cannot help but blame my mother once again—thanks ma.

Cameron’s Perspective

My mind likes to play tricks on me. It likes to think that I can participate in, excel at, and enjoy any and every type of outdoor activity. Hiking. Camping. Rock climbing. Snowboarding. Badminton. Turns out my mind is one big fat liar.

While conversing with potential male prospects, descriptions of my personal interests and hobbies are screaming with versatility: “Well yes, I love to climb icy cliffs barefoot while carrying a weeks worth of peanut butter protein bars in my fanny pack to reach an unbreathable summit only to slalom ski down for the complete thrill (and maybe a new Facebook profile pic) shooting bears and throwing them on my back along the way to cook for dinner with my bare hands during next weeks camping trip. I am an outdoor connoisseur after all.”

After attempts to participate in any of the previously mentioned activities, it immediately becomes evident that my confidence is a complete and utter sham. My own mind is brutally against me, conning me to believe I have successful strength and stamina. Turns out the only thing successful about my attempts of impressing the Fun Outdoorsy Guy are blisters, sore muscles, and fifty different facial and verbal expressions representing my frustration.

I was painfully reminded of these frustrations on a recent hike. An hour and fifteen minute uphill hike. While I appreciate living in the Pacific Northwest and relish in its green and lush beauty, on this particular day there was minimal to no relishing. What I thought was going to be a piece of cake was clearly hindered by years of previously unmonitored actual piece of cake consumption.

It started out innocent enough. I had a spring in my step while I happily played compass, curiously discovering what direction I was hiking based on the adorably fuzzy moss growing on the tall and grandiose trees surrounding me. I would skip to a stop only to identify what kind of enchanting bird was singing out to us and playfully debate my guess: “I believe it’s a Chickadee but maybe you’re right, my fellow outdoor-loving friend, it very well could be a Blue Jay. I just love these moments of nature we’re sharing together.”

I admired the many rock climbers I passed by, daydreaming about what victory dance I will choose when I nimbly climb to the top of the cliff when I come back next week with all of my newly bought rock climbing gear. But most of all I was enjoying the attractive men in their Oakley sunglasses and sleeveless shirts as their calf muscles brilliantly bulged with each step in their meticulously laced brown hiking boots. What better place to meet men than on the trail of love?

Then it happened. Children started passing me. Old men with walking sticks were politely excusing themselves to go around my struggling slow pace. Each hill was growing taller and higher and steeper than the one before. My vision started to blur. The birds who were once cooing love songs in my ear were now mocking me. I was no longer smiling at the cute guy and pretending to like his dog hoping to get a future trail date. I was angry.

The mountain deceived me.

The only thing that kept me going was the reward of my carefully chosen Chocolate Brownie Clif Bar I was going to devour when I reached the top. An hour and ten minutes later the summit was finally in sight. I slowly got up from my crawling position and collapsed on the first rock I saw. I did it. I made it to the top. Little by little my vision came back into focus. The birds came back around and started singing my praises. My mind was right; I was a hiking champion. Any man should consider himself lucky if I were to accompany him on such a perfect uphill adventure.

It was now time for this champion’s reward. I lethargically reached into my bag ready to enjoy the last bit of anything good that was left in the world. Then as I pulled out my excited and shaking hand, it was completely covered in melted Chocolate Brownie Clif Bar. Figures.

Now I know better when asked to participate in any sort of outdoor activity. I answer with a newfound confidence: “Yes, I will participate in your hike. If it’s downhill both ways. And you’re willing to carry a cooler for my Clif bar.”

 

The Good Wife

Men often pride themselves in their math skills. I try to impress my husband by adding numbers up in my head super fast and shouting them out like it is a contest. I think he likes it. A month ago my husband was attempting to do some simple trigonometry in his head. After transposing some numbers he reached his hand out to me and mumbled something about a pen.

“A pen?” I replied.

“Yes, I need a pen,” I could see his matter of fact expression, like I had what he needed.

“I don’t have a pen.” I shrugged. Was I supposed to have a pen?

He answered my thoughts with a rhetorical question. “What kind of wife doesn’t carry a pen? You are a bad wife.”

I did not know that a wife needed to carry a pen. If I had known now, what I should have known then…that is the saying, right? If all it took was a pen, my life would have been so much easier. Of course I know better than that. Tonight my husband and I will reminisce about the elusive pen. He will tease that I am terrible wife and I will say that even if I had a pen he would complain that it was not a black one. It will be a good time at the Bridges household; we might even break out a puzzle.

Since that day I have laughed over what constitutes a good wife. I already refused to make his lunch in the mornings. ‘I don’t care if the other wives do it, I work full-time,’ was my response. If that were really the reason I would get up in the summer (when I am off work) and make his lunch. Do I? No. Why, you ask? Because I am a good wife. Yes, you read that correctly, a good wife. I have never pretended to be anything more than that. Let’s be honest, a good wife makes dinner a few nights a week. A great wife makes dinner seven nights a week. A good wife does laundry on the weekends. A great wife does laundry as needed (2-3 nights a week). A good wife cleans the house before company comes over. A great wife vacuums every other day. I could go on, but I think I have made my point.

Do you recall Newton’s third law of motion? Every action has an equal and opposite reaction; that is how I remember it. Although this law describes the relationship between forces acting on a body, I have focused on the relationship part. I have always thought that if I put in 100% my partner would also put in 100%, similar to Newton’s law. Not always the case. Yes, I could be unselfish and continue to put in 100% even if my partner is putting in a solid 85.7%, but that would just leave me bitter. Who wants a bitter wife? No one. Therefore, rather than resent my husband for the extra 14.3% I am putting in (note the impressive math), I decide to be a good wife. It works out great. In fact, it works out better than great. Lately, my husband has been putting in 110% (mowing the lawn, putting in a laminate floor, having my friends over ‘til 2a.m.) so I owe him a good 24%, but a wife can easily cover the spread with a fancy dinner or an unexpected “physical” encounter. Personally, I would rather be in debt than resent. So there you have it. I think I am a good wife. I strive to be a good wife. However, if you are into overachieving, or are branded as a definite Type A personality, I cannot help you. But then again, if that is the case, you would not need help (you’d have a power point and excel spreadsheet to guide you every step of the way). To the good wives of the world, I say Cheers! You are in good company.

Cameron’s Perspective

Romantic Catastrophes

I have every aspiration to be the kind of girl who has it all together. So together in fact, I imagine as I walk down the street every vehicle slowing, rolling down their windows in perfect unison, and turning to the same station so I can enjoy the soundtrack to my day. I imagine animals flocking to my angelic presence (besides dogs of course). Spontaneously catching children falling from trees. Giving old fragile men an arm to hold as they walk across the street. People around me suddenly starting to sing and dance, and I join in naturally knowing every move and note.

This happens in fancifully directed movies, not in everyday life. Movies like Disney Fairy Tales, which can be traced back as the direct source as to why every young girl wants to be a Princess. Princess status comes complete with Prince Charming rescuing her from a purple fire-breathing dragon as she lays in a witch-induced coma, and then living “Happily Ever After” as they drive off in their sparkling coach enjoying true love’s kiss. This translates to real life expectations of meeting the man of your dreams by age 20 who makes at least 40 grand a year and drives a truck that makes him feel so manly he therefore drives through as much mud as possible.

As we get a little older we realize that the majority of us are not real-life princesses, nor do we want to be. As single girls in this time and age we can conquer any field of our choosing, whether it be career, entertainment, or even men. We don’t want to be stuck in some Palace only being able to see the excitement and beauty of the outside world captured on YouTube and the E! Channel. Jasmine’s got nothin’ on us. Except for a pet tiger. That’s what I call awesome.

Danger still lurks over the pretty heads of independent singles this day and age, but instead of it coming from an Evil Stepmother demanding chores, it comes in the form of modern Romantic Comedies. In these Rom Coms, any girl with a sweet demeanor and long wavy hair can be swept off her Manolo Blahniks just by walking in the right coffee shop at the right time to order her Non Fat Green Tea Organic Grass Frappuccino. These protagonists do yoga daily, get up early, have a best girlfriend who is always there to listen, laugh at her jokes, and be her wing man in any social setting. She lives in the city, drives a sports car that matches her purse, has an extensive fashionable wardrobe and apartment with a view. These strong women work hard (never walking down the hallway without being approached by numerous assistants handing her coffee, her appointments for the day, and her briefcase), get promoted, and most likely write for a magazine. This perfection messes with our imperfect heads.

I have had every intention and attempt of following in the Rom Com’s leading lady’s footsteps. I’ve tried yoga, changing all my bread to multi-grain, set my alarm 15 minutes early, and subscribed to Cosmopolitan to get the best advice for fashion and men. My reality is that I can only go halfway downward dog, am obsessed with Rainbow Chip Cupcakes, hit snooze on my alarm three times before I slowly manage to get up, and circulate the same four outfits I bought at Target.

In a nutshell, I’m no leading lady that has it all together. Disney’s Prince Charming would question the fact that I tend to hog the remote from children when I play Super Mario Brothers 3, become entranced for hours on end when I play Guitar Hero (*cough*expert*cough*), keep an oversized Lip Smackers in my purse at all times because I’m addicted, and have a strange and alluring attraction to eating dry Top Ramen.

Stop making that face.

While I may be no Sandra, Julia, Kate or Katherine, there also doesn’t seem to be an overflowing selection of handsome and romantic leading men. I happen to come across the douchebag, bad boy, redneck, boring mcborington, nerdy, and geeky types. While I believe that I could and do enjoy some aspects of all of these types of men (are video games nerdy or geeky?), the problem with me is that none of them have kept my attention long enough to… see I already forget what I was saying. All I know is that I end up wanting to poke my eye out with something hot when I spend too much time around these guys. I guess at this point, picky isn’t plausible.

I believe the character Alex Goran said it right in Up in the Air: “Yea, a nice smile just might do it.” But then again, she was dating George Clooney in the film. We all know that he has more “nice” than just his smile. So what does she know.

Jackie’s Perspective

Most people are not fond of four-letter words, but what about four-word phrases?

Four-word phrases my husband loves to hear:

1. I love my life! (Much better than the alternative, see 1 below)
2. Dinner is almost ready.
3. I used my allowance.

Common four-word phrases used in my house:

1. I hate my life! (I am very good at whining)
2. Can we go out? (Come six o’clock when I have nothing prepared)
3. Allowance? I ran out.

Four-letter words heard in our home:

1. Love.
2. Dogs. (Klaus is the puppy addition to our family)
3. P90X. (I am convinced my husband will look like Jacob when the 90 days are up)

Common four-letter words heard in our home:

1. DOGS! (Ka-Louse!!!!)
2. Peed.
3. Chew.

Yes, we have a dog together. That is the PC version. Truth be told, I have a dog and my husband has a dog. My dog is sweet, lazy, potty trained, and has surpassed his chewing stage. We call him Winston. He is my bulldog.

As a newlywed, it is important to purchase a dog together—it is binding (similar to that of having a child together in a second marriage). My husband has always wanted a German Shepherd, now known to me as a GSD. Apparently owning a GSD gives you automatic access to exclusive GSD groups and the knowledge of the acronym itself. I feel like an elitist of dog owners. Oh, and did I mention that my husband had to have a German, German Shepherd. No, a simple American GSD would not do. We had to drive 5 hours over the mountain pass to obtain a GSD with East German ancestry (or was it West German?). Truth be told, it was my idea to forge into the puppy phase (I had a weak moment while trying to be a good wife). In my defense, my husband picked out Klaus personally. How has Klaus impacted our life you ask? Let me tell you.

1. We doubled our mortgage to gain a yard because Klaus outgrew the condo.
2. My husband is currently laying laminate downstairs because Klaus likes to chew carpet.
3. We purchased a doggy play-pen after he destroyed one coffee table, an end table, two kitchen chairs, and a small (but hopefully repairable) part of the leather chair.

I am of course leaving out the best part—I am learning to love unconditionally. Klaus alone has increased my patience, forced my husband to work on his self-calming skills (another word for anger management), and has strengthened our relationship. They say you are refined by fire. We are refined my Klausfire. I suppose I should add that Klaus has also added to our other four-letter word; love. We love him and we are learning what it means to love unconditionally.

The following are also worth mentioning:

1. I now have a jogging partner and no longer have to carry mace.
2. I am loved unconditionally on a daily basis.
3. I am healthier (they say people with pets live longer).
4. I am confident that Klaus will save my life someday (My husband reminds me of that often).
5. A cell phone picture of Klaus and Winston can make me smile and warm my heart.

All in all, dogs are work—not unlike marriage. However, I would not change it even if I could (at least not today—today I love my life).

Cameron’s Perspective

Single and Soul-less

While being single is fabulous, we don’t want to turn that into a question. Not all singles are happy in their current situation. I’m going to throw a major golden nugget at their head that will undoubtedly turn that pout into a teeth sparkling smile. This smile will be so big that never before seen dimples will appear on both cheeks, despite the throbbing mountainous bruise forming on their frontal lobe caused by the coolest element on the periodic table I just chucked.

There are a few factors that go into making a happy single life. I, for one, have the number one rule down pat. DON’T OWN A DOG.

Dogs. Ah yes, natures favorite canines. This single girl’s worst enemy. I can and will in fact blame this on my mother and say since I did not have a dog growing up, I never got used to the creatures. Now I cringe at the thought of being licked in the face with that horrendous dog breath caused by eating their own poop.

The benefits of not having man’s best friend by my side are countless. I am excited by the fact that I can leave for work early in the morning, go to the gym straight after, and join up at a happy hour on the way home. There are no out of the way stops to feed, walk, entertain, or sickeningly cuddle with an animal. I am able to jet set on a whim without making arrangements for a dog sitter and spending my glorious travel time worrying about my “child.” Countless money that would be spent at the veterinarian on pills, shots, and checkups is better well spent on my own personal use of caffeine pills, vodka shots, and checking out men. This is my own pocket of joy. Others argue that this means I have no soul. Well if that’s the case then single and soul-less is definitely fabulous.

Now some will proclaim that having a dog would benefit my single life. I disagree on numerous levels, some of which I just mentioned. The rest will be saved for a combative rainy day argument with dog lovers after my necessary consumption of caffeine pills and vodka shots because I was forced to watch them thrillingly put together their favorite “Dogs Playing Poker” puzzle.

There is one benefit I will humbly agree on that owning a dog would have on my already fulfilled single life: Dog Parks. Where dogs and men alike roam leash-less and free. Where gorgeous, quality, shirtless single men hold their baby niece in one arm, and throw a frisbee with the other showing off muscles I don’t even know the names of. Where these eligible men flock to me like the strategically placed wild geese I’m passing as they see me running with my matching Golden Retriever.

Right. Then they call their mothers just to say hi after their romp in these so-called alluring dog parks. Well if my chances of meeting Mr. Right become extremely high upon stepping foot on that littered grass, then what I’m willing to do is borrow your dog. For an hour. But you must come along because I’m not touching that dog waste bag with my freshly manicured hands. I don’t want to give Mr. Dog-Loving Right the wrong idea. I don’t touch hot dog poop. I don’t cook. I don’t even do dishes. Come to think of it, I don’t like your dog.

So let’s just save ourselves a little bit of time and a lot of a bad break up, and you can take your own dog to the park while I stay home and contemplate why I’m still single as I’m putting together my favorite “Cathy Cartoon” puzzle.

If You’re Happy and You Know it Clap your Hands

“Hi, how are you?” We get that question all the time. More often than not our answer is, “Fine.” That is the expected response. For most people, that is what they want to hear. Not many are interested in hearing about how you are having cramps and a migraine. So why do they ask? If you ask a question, you should be perpared to get an answer, any answer.

A few of my friends are also recently married. And of course we all get the dreaded question, ‘When are you going to have kids?’  Personally I am over this question. I have a myriad of answers prepared, depending on the questioner.

To my mom, “Probably Never.” I am brutally honest.

To my mother-in-law, “We aren’t there yet.” I cannot, in good conscience, crush her dreams of grandchildren, yet.

To friends with kids, “When we are ready.” Similarily, I cannot, in good conscience, tell them how annoying I think kids are.

Once in a while I throw in the selfish line. To be completely transparent, that is what we are. We are too selfish to give up our freedom. I may die a patriot.

As newlyweds people will ask you all kinds of questions, but there is another one that is not well recieved nor easily given. “How’s married life?” Yep, that is the one. Once in while, people even preface your answer with, “Is it all you hoped it would be?”

I would like to say, “That is none of your business!” Or, “How is your marriage faring?” That would be considered rude, so I bite my tongue, but I now have the perfect answer. I heard another newlywed answer in the this fashion, and I am totally stealing it. “I would say I am 98% happy.” How about those stats? Sounds pretty good, provides people with the answer they want to hear. And then I drop the honesty bomb, “The other 2% is highly concentrated.” I smile. They smile, knowingly. We understand each other, and that is how it is done.

Cameron’s Perspective

Rootless and Temporary

Don’t get me wrong – being single has some major perks. Despite this fact, most people’s ultimate dating goal is marriage, followed by having kids and forming a cookie cutter family. Society’s standards, married friends, and impatient mothers are all factors to the suffocating pressure forming on all sides of a blissfully single life. I’ve seen the pitying “Oh you’re single?” looks, heard the sorrowful “You’ll find someone someday” tones, and thrown away RSVP cards because I was frustrated with the “Single” box I had to check.

What I have gathered in my unattached years is that some see singles as handicapped. To me, getting to claim yourself as your only dependent is like coming to the realization you have an above par IQ, and you’ve been invited to the Mensa society. This society is not for the weak of heart, dumb of brain, or lazy of souls. This “singles society” beams one thing that most attached and stable beings dream of: freedom.

Ah, freedom. To me, it’s one of the most eloquent words in the English language – next to Nintendo, bubble gum ice cream, and must see reality TV. This freedom is what allowed me to run the original Olympic field, ride a camel by the Egyptian pyramids, walk the streets where Jesus walked, swim with Frida the dolphin in Cabo San Lucas, hang with lumberjacks in Alaska, plastic sword fight with a paid Roman soldier in front of the ancient Colosseum, take an illegal picture of Michelangelo’s famous work, ride Donk the donkey up the side of a Greek mountain, and force a Beef Summer Sausage to drink Sangria in Barcelona.

I was able to do all this because I have been stubbornly unattached. While being correctly dubbed as rootless and temporary, I have delved into ten top reasons as to why this is my own approved lifestyle:

1. Doing whatever I want, whenever I want, with whoever I want, however… wherever… never gets old.
2. Pushing microwave buttons to cook my meals works perfectly fine for this family of one.
3. I get my DVR all to myself. I don’t even know what channel ESPN is on. I relish in this lack of knowledge.
4. I get to spend my extra money any way I want. This is usually spent on shoes, happy hour, and lip gloss. I giggle just thinking about it.
5. I don’t have to pretend to like any hobby that includes fish, bouncy balls, or painting action figures.
6. The only arguments I have are the ones with myself about which color top looks best with my freshly bought lip gloss and shoes… on my way to happy hour.
7. I don’t have to sit through any Terminator, Fast and the Furious, Bruce Willis, or Sylvester Stallone movies.
8. I get to sleep through the whole night, every night… AND I get to sleep in on the weekends until all my sleep runs out.
9. I get to have Girls Night Out every night of the week while flirting with any man that comes within a two foot radius of me.
10. I don’t have to share my laundry with tighty whities that say “Kiss me I’m Irish.”

I regretfully stop at 10 just for the sake of space, but I believe I could have typed out a “Top 100” list in just about two more minutes. Single ladies, let’s just be honest, this grass is GREEN!

Marriage is Not Overrated.

Marriage is underrated…or rather, the work involved is underemphasized. Serverly.

As a newly wed, I can tell you from experience, that I am right.

Everyone told me sex was overrated—(when I say everyone, I mean women; married women)–so I generalized that to mean marriage in general. Of course I did not care at the time because I know everything. For the record, I now know everything.

As an expert, I will begin by clarifying how I know marriage is underrated and not overrated. No one told me marriage was easy. No one overestimated the happiness or excitement of marriage. No.One. They did, however, underestimate how much work it takes. There, I said it. Yes, I am a newly wed, overworked from too much sex, sporting an unnatural glow, but let me tell you again—Marriage is hard.

Blah, blah, blah, I know, you’ve heard it before. Maybe I need to say it in laymen’s terms; Marriage is a lot of effing work!

Why the secrets? Why not tell us the whole truth? Personally, I think it is a conspiracy. Society fears that if we knew the truth we would become spinsters, have wild sex with many men, and produce no children. So who is to blame? I blame my mother (I’ll put 20 percent of it on my Mother-in-law).

But, I have a secret of my own. There is a rule, of sorts, that has redeemed my married soul. You’ve heard most of the rules, you know, the ones married women tell you at the bridal shower—never go to bed angry, don’t keep any secrets, say I love you everyday. My husband keeps all of them, I keep most of them. For the most part, we do all that, but I dare say that is not enough. Our secret, our saving grace is found in four capital letters; DINK. Yep, we are dinks, Dual-Income, No Kids.

That is my secret to a successful marriage. Oh the Joy! Oh the peace! Let me explain.

DI = My income has doubled since being single. My budget has gone from credit card to $50 cash per week. That may sound insignificant to you, but I do not want for anything (My husband would tell you something different). My morning Starbucks and weekly happy hour no longer require the dreaded swipe. Instead of babbling on about points, why else would I use a credit card—except that I had no money, I simply slide my fingers into my wallet to grasp crisp, green bills. It’s like warm apple pie, ladies. I kid you not.

NK = I work with 651 kids 181 days a year. I know, it’s a tough job (don’t get me started on my husband’s idea of me getting a summer job). At home it’s like visiting a resort with no kids. This translates to: Sleeping in the on the weekend, Making irresponsible purchases (hence our 50” t.v. for proper viewing of the upcoming UFC fight), and sitting in the bar during happy hour (sans the crying, screaming, or the annoying kid poking his head over the booth to stare at you while you eat). Pure Bliss!

Marriage is not overrated…Being a DINK is!

Cameron’s Perspective

Single-Handed

Oh the adventures of dating. Exciting, whimsical, exhausting. I’m the kinda girl that’s tried a little bit of a lot of things. A “Jill of all trades” if you will. Not because I’m more adventurous than my female counterparts per say, but because I get bored so quickly I have lovingly diagnosed myself with attention deficit disorder (Cameron-style). The ADDCS (attention deficit disorder Cameron-style) kicks in during, but not limited to: astronomy discussions of why one star is brighter than another, Star Trek Trivia Night, arguments versus left wing/right wing/wrong wing/organic grain fed wing, and being forced to add, subtract, multiply or divide without a calculator. My eyes well at the thought.

Take for example, me learning to surf. Instead of riding the ultimate wave I get distracted by boogie boarding, body surfing, the miracle of my feet sinking in the sand more and more with each foamy caress, and sharks. This sort of quick distraction makes my personal odds of landing a perfect man seem to me like landing on the moon. Not because it’s impossible, but because I happen to try to get to space in a rocket I made out of sticks, aluminum foil, and rubber bands all dipped in pink glue because I think it’s a good idea.

My quest to find this strapping gentleman is not taken lightly. I’ve felt passion before. My pupils dilate, my heart races, my sense of smell is on point, I pet stranger’s dogs, and then I high five the dog owner. Twice. My difficult pursuit is not complete until I am in this desired state of mind and soul. Until then I’m forced to army crawl my way through the masses of bad dates and curious searching of ridiculous online profiles.

I know what you’re thinking. How, you ask, can this vibrant young woman of 28 years achieve this seemingly unattainable feat? Well I shall answer and say, it’s not going to be easy. But I am willing to take the high road/long road/uphill road both ways to get there.

The fact of the matter is… I’m almost thirty. There, I said it. I have written a “To Do Before I’m Thirty” list and I don’t think I’ve un-crumpled that napkin in some time. While I am a fan of being an empowered, successful and fulfilled single woman, the reality is that my ovaries have no idea what that means. I can feel them dying, along with my desire for sleepless nights and ear-ringing cries. I need to get on this pastel colored bandwagon before it runs me over because I waited too long.

I think the universe is trying to have some fun with me and decided to add a troubled economy into the mix. Men don’t have enough money for their own place, let alone a date. All I want is a happy hour appetizer finely paired with two glasses of half priced wine while I’m trying to figure out if I can tolerate the man sitting in front of me enough for a second date. Is that too much to ask?