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P R O L O G U E
I’ve always been an independent woman.
Never saw much appeal in the alternative.
Maybe it’s because I’m the oldest. Maybe it’s my genetic temperament. Or maybe the fact that my dad’s a complete dipshit had something to do with it.
Whatever the catalyst, I was determined to be a success in my own right from a young age.
Meanwhile, by my mid-twenties, all my female friends were looking for men they could place their trust in. Hitch their dreams to. Some of them got lucky. Those who didn’t got desperate.
But while they divided their time between playing the field and man-bashing girls’ nights, I busied myself with other matters. Like working my way up the corporate ladder, saving for a place of my own, and putting myself in a position where I’d never have to rely on anyone else.
Because when you rely too much on another person, one of two things is bound to happen. Either you get taken advantage of or that person tires of you.
And then you end up like my mother, buried under a mountain of debt that doesn’t even belong to you while your ex-husband shops for timeshares in Florida with his tart of a second wife, whose genius lies in the fact that she knows better than to ever trust him as much as you did.
The only silver lining was that we weren’t babies when he walked out. I wasn’t anyway. And when you spend your teenage years scraping melted cheese off diner tables to help your mom pay off your dad’s gambling debt, you can’t help but question whether a smooth-talking man is really the answer to your prayers.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not bitter. Just practical.
Because if life has taught me anything, it’s that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
It’s not always easy, but whiners can never be winners, and only winners can ever be happy. That’s what I believe, anyway.
So when I get stuck, I don’t look around for someone who can help me. I look inwards. I dig deep. I Google it. And with every challenge I overcome, I fortify myself. With every new skill I collect, I become less vulnerable.
And that’s the real goal because I’ve seen firsthand what vulnerability does to people.
I’ve seen how it makes them feeble, how it makes them stupid. How it makes them love people they shouldn’t. And I don’t want anything to do with that.
I like feeling strong, feeling capable. Feeling in control.
But sometimes, in my private moments, I worry I’m deluding myself.
I worry I’ve made all the wrong choices and focused on all the wrong things. Because even though my mind hates feeling weak, I wonder if my knees might like it from time to time.
It’s too late for me, though.
After all, I’m far too sensible to believe in fairytales, especially the sort where an eligible bachelor who’s dying to start a family yesterday falls for a woman in her thirties whose obsession with Joni Mitchell and Mr. Clean borders on the absurd.
Besides, my heart is already crowded with the love I have for my high standards, standards I could never expect a hot-blooded male to meet.
