And I pledged to give up flirting for February.
Larry pads into the study, curious about what I’m doing in the Room That Shall Be Ignored, and sniffs at a dusty box. Then he promptly sneezes.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be in here,” I tell Larry, and give him a pat. “We can’t live in the past.”
I stand, put the yearbook back in the box, and return to my open laptop on the kitchen table.
I know some of you will think this Go Solo challenge is just nonsense. That the phrase “It’s about time I date me!” sounds trite and ridiculous and would be accompanied by a dozen gross selfies of me grabbing fro-yo, or riding a tandem bike alone, or toasting myself with a flute of pink champagne. But that’s not what I’m talking about.
We’re all so focused on becoming one half of a pair, of making ourselves fit another person, that we don’t spend nearly enough time figuring out who we are, what we want, or what we even like before we jump headfirst into a relationship. I’ll be honest, I spend so much time feeling desperate just toBEwith someone that I’m willing to overlook anything that seems bad. I’m even willing to convince myself that something I didn’t want is what I wanted all along. (A man who never lets me see him on the weekend? That’s totally fine, Dan. I’ll adjust. Really. It’s what I want, too!)
Or I’ll even be okay with being with someone who doesn’t even really want to be with me. (Hey, Marley, I know you only married me for a pregnancy scare, and are staying with me for convenience andbecause I paid all the grocery and utility bills, and that’s completely fine. Because we had a real, practical marriage and that’s totally better than one that’s about head-over-heels love, because who wants a soul mate when you can have the practical choice?)
Solo February is really about giving us the time and space to really think about who we are all on our own. How do I even know who I should be with, if I don’t even know who I am by myself? And, really, aren’t I better off alone than settling for something I don’t want? Rather than settling for men who don’t deserve me, I really ought to wait for the man who does.
I stop typing long enough to think about Jack. Those eyes. Those shoulders. Those baker’s hands. The easy flow of conversation. The way he makes me laugh. His ridiculous and hilarious bee drawing in my yearbook. No. Stop thinking about Jack. He’s just another escape hatch, another (incredibly handsome) distraction. And he has a girlfriend. A capital “G,” Louis Vuitton–toting girlfriend.
Larry whines then, walking over to what he thinks is the front door, but is actually the entryway table leg. He’s about six inches off. Poor guy. He needs to go out. I fetch his leash. The front door sticks a little, and I tell myself I should have someone in to fix that. And to fix the leaky faucet in the bathroom. And the uneven floorboards in the corner of my bedroom. Then I have a flashback to when Marley lived here. He would’ve taken care of those things. Marley didn’t pay his share of condo expenses, but he did putz around and fix things. Not always perfectly (he once accidently superglued the light fixtureto the “on” position when he was trying to fix a broken light plate), but still.
Marley and I bought this condo the second year we were married, sometime after the pregnancy scare, but before the sexting scandal. The condo was just a flimsy excuse to stay together. If we weren’t going to be parents, then we could at least be property owners, because we could qualify for a mortgage together that we never could have qualified for alone. I’ve never really loved the condo. It’s a seven-hundred-square-foot, two-bedroom walk-up, with no central AC, no bathtub (sad because I so, so miss bubble baths), no washer/dryer, and no parking, but it had “a cool vintage vibe” and exposed brick, which Marley was all about. In the fury of the divorce, keeping the condo just somehow felt like winning, even though I’m pretty sure Marley didn’t even want it in the end.
I’m on the first landing, when a door pops open and I see the orange face of Pam. She’s addicted to spray tan, which makes her look like a walking clementine. Marley sent her a lewd photo after a condo meeting where everyone had too much wine and not enough cheese. His excuse was that he actually meant to send it to someone else. Pam informed me of said picture, and I stupidly apologized, even though I had nothing at all to do with it. The Pam Incident set off a spiral of discoveries about just how Marley had been using his phone, including several active profiles I found on dating apps, which eventually led to our split. Pam and I should’ve bonded and been lifelong friends, except then I adopted Larry to fend off the loneliness draining my will to live, and Pam hated him on sight. It’s been war ever since.
“Oh. Pam.” I keep forgetting Pam works from home now. Has since the first shutdown during the pandemic. It’s the worst.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” she says. That’s a lie. “Did you leave the Green Gleam at my door?” Pam notices Larry for the first time and ducks behind her door a little, uneasy. I make sure I stand between Larry and Pam, a protective shield.
“Yes,” I say, thinking it was kind of a nice olive branch, me bringing it inside, instead of tossing it into the dumpster in the alley around back. “Just trying to be a good neighbor.” I say this brightly, without sarcasm, and I’m proud of myself for that.
“The produce almost spoiled,” she snaps. “You need to tell me it’s here, so I can put everything in the fridge.”
“Oh. Sorry?” I was just trying to be nice.
“I mean, this box is expensive.” She is actually, seriously, annoyed with me. I can tell, because her clementine face is turning a deeper shade of orange.
“I was just trying to help, making sure it wasn’t left outside.” I guess no good deed really goes unpunished.
“It would’ve beenbetteroutside.”
O-kay then.
“Also, while I have you, I wanted to talk to you aboutyour dog.” She spits out the words as if they’re poison. She glares at Larry, who hides behind my legs. “He makes a lot of noise.”
“He barely barks.”
“When he walks in your condo.” Pam rolls her eyes. “I have a lot of meetings, and it’s unprofessional to hear him galloping all over the place like an elephant.”
Behind my knees, Larry whines, worried. I tighten my grip on his leash.
“He really doesn’t walk around that much,” I say, defensive. Larry sleeps twenty-three of twenty-four hours a day.
“I just need quiet during the workday. That’s all.” Pam narrows her eyes at me. I narrow mine at her.
“I’ll do what I can,” I say, and by that, I mean absolutely nothing.
“See that you do,” she adds, meaning that she doesn’t really even care if I keep Larry quiet, because she’d rather have something to lord over me, fuel for our feud.
We glare at each other for a beat. Then Pam slowly withdraws into her condo and shuts her door, without a goodbye. Because, I think, it’s her way of saying she’s keeping an eye on me. It’s never really goodbye with her.
