This Year I Commit to:
1) 1) Only consume processed sugar on special occasions (and no, Fridays do not count).
2) Exercise five times per week for a minimum of thirty minutes per session.
3) Write daily journal entries, even if it’s just one sentence.
4) Set aside time for self-care, including long baths, walks, getting out into nature, and other things my favorite Instagram lifestyle gurus say I should do.
5) Find a new apartment without Creepy Hallway Guy and with a bedroom big enough that I can’t touch both sides at the same time.
6) Find lasting love with a good man. Translation: NO bad boys/grease monkeys/construction workers/unemployed but sexy men who want to use me as a crash pad or cash cow. Henceforth a good man shall be defined as an adult human who wears a suit to the job he goes to every day. He will also have an apartment or house he pays for without the help of a roommate, his parents, or the government. He will not ask me to fund his band, sure bet at the races, start-up automated vegan hot dog vending cart business, or any other whackadoo endeavor that has failure written all over it. I’m talking to you Dillion, Xander, Taylor, and Bart.
Number six is obviously my top priority, but according to Kaylie, the Lifestyle Queen, the other stuff must come first. I write today’s date, then add: Took hot bath. Otherwise failing. Must do better. Sighing, I close my journal and put it back on the porcelain throne, then sink into the water until it’s over my head. This time last year, I knew exactly where my future was heading—I was going to marry my boyfriend Joey, buy a house in Flushing, have a couple of kids, and live happily ever after. The old-fashioned American dream.
That was before Joey got fired from his third job in the two years we were together, then proceeded to take out his frustration on me in front of our friends at the Suds ’N’ Bowl. After him I went on a slew of crappy first dates that didn’t take before waving the white flag of surrender on dating altogether.
My mom didn’t take the news well and announced in her Christmas letter she was “learning to be comfortable with having a spinster daughter.” What century is this again?
In addition, I’ve been fending off calls, texts, and visits from my well-meaning aunts, who refuse to believe I’ve given up on love. Here’s a sample text conversation of how they view me.
Aunt Jean: Honey, I just read the news. You poor girl. I don’t want you to worry though, because Julia Roberts always got the man in her romcoms. If she can do it, so can you.
Me: Um, thanks.
Aunt Jean: Of course, she didn’t get hitched in real life until she was in her late thirties, unless you count that weird looking musician she was married to for a minute (which I don’t).
Me: Okay.
Aunt Jean: Although she did have to break up a marriage to get her happily ever after. I’m not saying that’s okay, but after a certain age ...
Me: Are you suggesting I start dating married men?
Aunt Jean: I refuse to put that in writing. And don’t tell your mom I said that. But it does seem to have worked out well for them, so…
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