—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
The first day of Solo February dawns dreary and frigid, with six inches of new wet snow on our already salt-laden streets, a typical welcome to February for Chicago. After a bone-dry, extra-mild, above-freezing Christmas, we get a weather-outside-is-frightful delight on February first. Mother Nature loves to procrastinate more than I do.
I snuggle deeper into the warmth of my “office” duvet, as I sneak a look at the first published article ofSolo February. The article already has a few likes, so I let out a sigh of relief. The trolls haven’t yet crucified me, so that’s a good sign.
I finish the second article of the series, and even take a stab at the third. I’m going for self-empowerment, but I have niggling doubts I might be coming off as bitter and sad.
The whole point of Solo February is to find fulfillment in your life unconnected to sex, love, or another person. And I’ll be frank, I have no idea what this looks like. While I never consciously meant to, my whole adult life, I’ve measured my own personal success by who’s in my bed.
And if you look at my exes, you can see my bar was very low.
Actually, my bar was on the ground.
No, strike that. I actually had to dig into the ground, then put my bar in the hole. We’re talking below-sea-level low. Someone would have to build a subway tunnel to get under my bar, so is it no wonder that any jerk who wandered into my life just stepped right on over my buried bar?
I can’t trust myself to date anymore. I can’t trust that I know who’s good for me or who’s bad. It’s about time I stretched my wings. Hell, it’s about time I used them at all.
I finish typing and read over the last line. At the foot of my bed, Larry lifts his head and whines. I realize he needs to go out. I pull myself out of bed to fetch Larry’s leash and stuff my feet into the stained shearling-lined boots I’ve had for more than a decade. Together, we head out to face the brutal Chicago February. Larry bumps against the doorframe. Not once, but twice, before I gently steer him away from it, and down the winding staircase to the first floor of my four-story walk-up.
Outside, winter slaps me in the face, hard, and I feel the wind instantly sucked out of my lungs. It’s literally too cold tobreathe properly, as my lungs work to process the frigid February air. Thankfully, Larry’s tree is all but ten feet from my front door, which really is Larry’s genius. It’s not his first Chicago winter, either. As he pads around the small square of gray, icy sludge at the base of the leafless tree, I burrow myself deeper into my down-lined coat, glancing up and down Montrose Avenue.
I live in one of those vintage condo buildings, complete with gargoyles hanging off the roof and a single gray stone castle turret on the east corner, sealing the building’s medieval vibe. It was built in 1890, though, by a Chicago meatpacking baron, whose dream included living in a replica castle. It’s since been gutted and remodeled and converted to condos. It’s close to the Lincoln Square brown line stop, and a dozen bars and restaurants. In one direction lies some of the best Italian or Thai food in town, and in the other, there’s tapas, upscale American, and so many other options there’s no reason ever to turn my own oven on.
As I’m turning to go back inside, I see a brown delivery truck pull up and double park. The logo on the truck is obscured by a three-inch layer of salt from the icy roads. Poor guy, I think as he hops out of the truck so bundled that he can hardly move. He carries a big box that seems unwieldy and heads to my condo building.
“Uh… is that for 3-E?” I ask.
The delivery guy swings around and almost swats me in the face with the giant box. “No. 2-E.”
Shit. That’s my downstairs neighbor, Pam. She hates me, fine, but it’s the fact she’s picked a beef with my dog that I really can’t stand. She claims his breed is “vicious” and has been leading acampaign to have him ousted from the building. Actually, she really wants to ban all dogs from the building. As president of the condo board, she brings it to a vote every meeting. So far, she’s only really gotten everyone to agree nonewdogs will be allowed. Larry, the only remaining dog in the building, is grandfathered in.
As a sidenote about Pam, she’s obsessed with marathons and triathlons and all the otherlons,at least since she broke up with her longtime live-in boyfriend, Thom, in the spring. We should’ve bonded over being two newly single ladies, but see: her hating my dog. And, let’s get real, the only triathlon I’m ever doing will be eat-nap-watch TV, or snack-chill-laze around. I should’ve known the package was hers, because now I see that health-food logo on it, one of those super pricey, super healthy, super gross-tasting smoothie services called Green Gleam, except that it probably should more aptly be named Colon Blast. I mean, good for her for putting the work in and all that, but there’s no way I’m going to use a blender to make my dinner, unless it’s frozen margarita night.
“I can bring it inside,” I offer.
He eyes me suspiciously, as if I’m trying to steal the box from him. Why would I commit porch piracy in front of my dog? That’s just bad parenting. A frigid blast of arctic air blows across the sidewalk, freezing us in our tracks, and the delivery man decides possible theft is better than frostbite.
“Here,” he says hastily and gives me the heavier-than-it-looks box.
I take it, considering whether or not to leave it outside on the stairs, but then reconsider because, while my neighborhood is pretty safe, there probably is a black market for Green Poopboxes. And Pam might hate me and my dog, but I’m still going to try to be a good neighbor. If I paid out the nose for special organic kale smoothie ingredients, I wouldn’t want them stolen. It’s just common courtesy. I head inside, fingers tingling because carrying the box to the stoop meant that I could not shove my bare hands deep in my pockets, and the thirty seconds of exposure turned my fingertips numb. I haul the box up the two flights and leave it at Pam’s door. I’d knock, but my knuckles are frozen, and besides, Larry does freak her out. She explicitly told me to avoid direct contact with her when Larry is with me.
And anyway, Larry is dragging me up the stairs because he knows it’s treat time when we get back to the condo. Once inside our warm apartment, Larry waits expectantly in the kitchen near his cabinet, big pink tongue lolling out. I reach into the cupboard with my numb fingers, but soon discover we’re out of Larry’s favorite treats. Ack! I’m a bad dog mom.
I glance at Larry’s expectant face. There are only a couple of reasons I’d leave my condo again on a day like this: for Larry or a fire.
A frigid two-block walk later, I’m wheeling my shopping cart through my local upscale grocery, Margo’s. The commercial love machine has thrown up on everything. Valentine’s decorations jump out at me from everywhere. I see one store employee busy stocking up the aisle in front of me with oversized pink teddy bears, sappy cards, bottles of warm champagne, and chocolate truffles. Seems like just yesterday this same seasonal aisle was filled with broken Christmas ornaments at 75 percent off.Please bring those back, I pray to the holiday marketing gods. I promise I’ll buy the Minions-as-reindeer driving a sleigh full of the Avengers. Anything but all these stupid hearts.
Then I remember I don’t need to care about Valentine’s Day this year. Since I’ve taken the #GoSolo vow, I won’t be expecting chocolates. Or flowers. Or having to lie to anyone who asks about having plans. Wow, there is really something empowering about that. I decide because this is the Month of Me, I might as well focus on something more uplifting: the refrigerated breakfast foods aisle. Sausage, eggs, and, of course, the true love of my life—bacon. I glance at the bright yellow sign at the shelf’s edge beneath the maple-flavored, extra-thick strips:buy one, get one.My heart soars and ticks up a notch. Who says I’m not lovable? Bacon loves me. Bacon never lies to me.I don’t have to guess whether or not he’s bad for me. I know he is. Do I buy one or two packages? Hmmmm. I hedge. Six it is. I mean, it’s non-GMO, organic bacon, after all. It would be unhealthynotto consume a pack a day. Bonus: it’scarb-free.
I dump all the packages from the row into my cart, ignoring the judgmental stare from the size-zero strawberry blonde wearing head-to-toe Lululemon as she side-eyes my outfit. I’m wearing a faded Turkey Trot sweatshirt that’s probably older than she is and has most of the lettering rubbed off, so it simply saysk… r… ot 5k. The woman’s nose wrinkles in disgust as she takes in my appearance. Ah, Lululemon, I was once bright-eyed and naïve just like you. Merely a few months ago, I, too, wore makeup to the supermarket, and lingered near the organic produce. I had hoped I could be one of those rare stories among my friends of someone who actually found their mate in the wild.Oh no, I didn’t meet the love of my life on somedating app at all. We met when we both reached for the very last ripened mango.So quaint.
I glance down and see she’s piled nonfat, plain Greek yogurt, kale, chia seeds, granola, and non-GMO frozen quinoa in her mini cart. Lululemon eyes my cart. The bacon has joined my bottle of tequila and six pints of salted caramel ice cream and, of course, treats for Larry. Her carefully lined lip turns downward in a disapproving frown. She reminds me a little too much of my downstairs neighbor Pam, who often wears the same look when she’s eyeing my overstretched yoga pants. I realize she is not Pam, and it’s not fair to lump her in the same dog-hater category, but she’s the one doing the aggressive staring, not me.
I meet her gaze, and in that instant, a silent conversation passes between us.
You’re single because you don’t try hard enough,her eyes tell me.
You’re trying too hard and your future boyfriend will still sext an Instagram model,my eyes clap back.
