Charming, but single

Friday Overjoyed that the workweek was finally over and pleased by some news regarding a possible raise, I promptly forgot the trials and tribulations of the week and strolled out of work that afternoon humming the theme to the Mary Tyler Moore show. “Who can turn the world on with her smile / Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?” I actually caught myself twirling in the hall. It was casual Friday and I had worn a bright pink v-neck under a little sweater, with my “long” jeans (tailored specifically so I can wear heels with them), dangly earrings and my version of the pointy-toe, high-heeled boot that every woman I know lives in on the weekends from late fall to winter. So I was feeling particularly cute and young. I’d dodged looks from the ladies at work who are older, married, mothers and grandmothers. The looks that say, “You are going to twist an ankle in those boots and rip an earlobe off because of those dangly earrings. And your chest will probably fall out of that low-cut shirt.” When I get those looks, I just smile and strut down the hall like I own the place in my three-inch heels, which I’ve worn so much that they really are comfortable now. So I did a little dance through the empty halls at almost 5 p.m. (most people either work four days a week or come in so they can leave by 4 p.m.), because I was suddenly feeling relatively invincible. “You can have the town / Why don’t you take it? / You’re gonna make it after all.” I met two girlfriends for a small Greek feast for dinner. We ate spicy falafel and salad with strong feta and drank Santorini wine and munched on pita and humus. I ate more calories that I probably care to admit. After dinner, my married pal headed home to see her hubby and The Banker joined me at a small bar for another glass of wine (which quickly turned into two). We were engaged in a conversation about men, of course. How you meet them, how long you should date them, how those of us who grew up in unbroken homes are just as screwed up about them as people from splintered homes. It was one of those conversations you can have only with another single woman. My married or seriously committed friends, bless their well-meaning hearts, assure us tritely that “He is out there” or “Marriage isn’t all it is cracked up to be.” And they’re probably right on both accounts at times. But the last thing any hopelessly single woman I know wants to hear is something patronizing like, “Oh, ladies, be glad you don’t have a husband around to mess up the house” or “I remember back when I was single, I used to think I’d never find someone! And then I met Him!” Seriously, Well-Meaning Non-Single Women of the World, stop. We appreciate that you’re trying to say things to make us Single Ladies and Hopeless Romantics feel better, but what you could really do instead is not give us pitying looks when we talk about disaster dates, suggest in a concerned tone that maybe we could bring “just a friend” to your weddings when we don’t have dates or (and this is my pet peeve) bring the roses your boyfriend/husband/significant other sent you around the office for a tour o’ cubicles before you place them on top of your bookshelf so that everyone walking through Cubeland can see how loved you are. Really, it just pisses us off. But I’ve digressed. I was having one of those conversations about being single with The Banker. We were discussing the pros and cons of online dating and generally having a nice time when I spotted a woman in a booth across from our table motioning to my chest. “Do you see those?” she asked her friends as she pointed to my breasts. “I mean, that is just ridiculous.” I tried to slyly look down and prayed that I wasn’t having an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction. I had leaned in a bit while The Banker was speaking because the music was kind of loud and the very edge of my lace bra was peeking out of my round-necked top. I adjusted it, but it certainly wasn’t a major issue and my breasts were certainly covered and not inappropriately displayed. The neckline of my top was pretty open, with a princess seam under my bustline. I’m going to admit, the construction of the shirt does not hide the fact that I have a chest, but I am careful and generally try to avoid letting the low neckline slip down so that you can see too much cleavage. (In fact, when I stand up and sit up with good posture, you can’t see cleavage at all.) Unfortunately, short of binding my chest down with freezer tape, there is little any shirt can do to hide the D-cups. I certainly don’t have Pam Anderson’s chest, but I have my fair share in the breast department. And I’m hoping working out and eating healthy (save the three glasses of wine from Friday!) will take some extra pounds off. Sometimes when women make catty comments about my chest, I want to just whip my head around and tell them, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was burka night tonight at the bar. Forgive me for offending your delicate sensibilities. Bitch.” Also, the woman harping on my chest was wearing a shirt that showed far more skin that mine. If she’d had my breasts, it would have been an unfortunate situation. And yeah, I had a sweater shrug on too, so it would be difficult to make the argument that I was just putting the Twins out there for all to see. (And even if I did have the Girls out for the world to see, who cares? It’s MY body in MY clothes that I pay for by working hard at MY job.) I tried to ignore the women and their catty comments as they continued whining about breasts. But I caught this one curly-haired girl giving me a stare down. And it made me really uncomfortable. We headed out around midnight and I was a bit frazzled by the whole thing, which I hadn’t brought up with The Banker, because she is a bit more conservative than I am and I doubt she’d want to discuss my breasts and their level of coveredness in public. I climbed in bed, watched a few episodes of my recently delivered “Grey’s Anatomy” DVD and drifted to sleep around 3 a.m., feeling less invincible before, but ever-so-slightly like I might still be able to turn the world on with my smile. Saturday I woke up and took a friend to pick up a rental car. My Mary Tyler Moore-ness started to wane as I realized that there was some sort of electrical short in my car that had caused my windshield wipers and blinkers to stop working. (Not a good thing for a cold, rainy, overcast weekend.) I went and saw the new baby, who is just so tiny and cute enough to eat. I held him and he looked so perfect wrapped up in a blanket with his tiny fingers and cute button nose. He is so little that I thought I’d break him when I changed his diaper. My eyes glazed over as I whispered secrets into his sleeping ears about how special he was and how we were so excited that he was here. (Ok, he’s only like a week old, but it is never too early to start working on his self-esteem, right?) “You do not need a baby.” My mom said, interrupting my daydream. “Not now, dear.” I protested that I wasn’t thinking that I did and my Mom gave me a knowing look that said she wasn’t born yesterday. So I reluctantly left the cutie with him mom and went home. Saturday night I met another girlfriend at the same bar (didn’t plan it that way, it just happened) for more wine and catching up. A crew of random people we knew stopped by the visit for awhile. I finally dragged myself home at around 1:30 a.m. and woke up with cottonmouth in full makeup with a Whole Foods burrito wrapper on the nightstand this morning. Ah yes, the late night drunk carb fest. At least they were organic vegan carbs, right?