If I’m being honest (which I always try to be on this blog), I’ve been kind of lame lately.
My friends would probably agree – especially since they’re always coming up with fun things to do – but this summer, I’ve had so much going on that going out hasn’t really been on the top of my mind.
So maybe that’s why last Saturday night felt a little strange to me.
I was sitting with my new friend (and roommate!), C at a bar seriously lacking men in the West Village on Saturday night, trying to figure out why my stomach was in knots. While I’ve been single the last three years, I have experienced that same night over-and-over again: dinner followed by bar hopping, followed by possible drunken kisses with cute strangers, followed by a late night in and an early morning up, cursing the hangover gods for their cruel intentions.
But last Saturday, something felt different.
There wasn’t anything unordinary about the evening, and I was excited my skinny jeans were a little loose on me (even though I ate a burger as big as my face that same day). I spent the day lounging on the beach, sipping drinks and exhaling stress after a really busy week at work. The night came and passed quickly, and I woke up the next morning still wondering about the nagging feeling. It wasn’t until a walk with Lucy that it hit me…
Unlike most of the time, I didn’t care that I didn’t meet someone to write home to mom and dad about that night. And that I might not meet him for another few months or even (gulp) years. It didn’t matter about the time it might take or if I wasted my cute outfit on guys not worth the trouble.
It wasn’t really about them – it was about me. And having a fun night out with a good friend.
Now, for many of you – this realization might seem a little strange. Of course you just go out sometimes to drink more than you should and prance around town in too-tall wedges and too-red lipstick. But for me – the uber romantic who believes love can happen in a damn second – my intentions for going out have almost always been the same:
To meet someone. And better yet the someone.
But here’s a very sad statistic I recently learned: only 5 percent of married couples met at a bar.
It makes sense that my parents’ very rare whirlwind romance and marriage would be part of the dismal number, but for the rest of us, if we aren’t going to meet Mr. Charming at the local establishment tonight, where are we going to meet him?
I don’t know. But regardless of when and where and how I stumble across that guy, I will tell you one thing:
I’m going out tonight.
I’m hitting the town with the people I love the most in this city. I’m going to wonder around my new hood, the East Village, trying places because they strike my mood, not because the clientele seems marriage-worthy (do they ever?). I’m going to take a shot I shouldn’t, stay out later than I normally do and let the night unwind in whatever way it must. In whatever way I want.
Because while I need to do a million things right now – like packing for my trip to London next week, meeting freelance deadlines, getting laundry finished and going for a run – the only thing I really want to do is enjoying being 25 (for at least another month). To savor being single. To let the possibilities unfold because I’m open to whatever happens, whatever is next.
And no, I probably won’t meet my husband tonight. It’s unlikely you will either. But you never know… unless you get up off that couch, step away from that Netflix and that bottle of wine… and go…