When it comes to dating, what are we to trust? Do we trust our hearts? Do we listen to our head? Or do we, well, how do I put this delicately? Do we follow our, um, nether regions? As a single woman in my 30s, I’ve done it all. Each path has, in certain instances, proven to be the right one. And in others, it has proven to be dead wrong. So, it’s hard to know. It’s hard to choose. And it can be hard to trust these approaches that have sometimes led me down a painful road. What I do know, however, is that no matter how hard I fight myself at times, I always end up going with my gut. Is that the reason I lay here tonight in a bed rustled on only one side? Maybe. But my gut instinct is killer strong. And even though it has tossed me into some murky waters, I’ve learned valuable lessons. That’s gotta be worth something.

Any rational, intelligent and sane woman in her 30s (or beyond) could be married. I’ve had my chances. I’ve been in relationships headed in that very direction. But in each instance, something wasn’t quite right. I had to trust my gut that there was a reason for my reticence…that there was a reason, in cases, for his. And although my experiences have found me where I lay today, writing to you about the life of a 30-something single woman - I have to believe there’s a reason for it. Because I am happier today than I ever have been. I am more confident. More self-assured. Stronger in my convictions, and most times, I hope, I helluva lotta fun to be around.

In recent months, as I’ve gotten my health in order, my career on the right track and set my sights - more intense than ever - on seemingly unattainable dreams, my life has begun to fall into place. I’m surrounded by a loving family, great friends, and, yes, more charismatic, talented, and interested men.

I’d heard it all before: if you do what you want, if you seek what you hope to achieve, and if you set your mind to living your most amazing life possible, the rest just simply falls into place. That’s hard advice to swallow when you’re in the dumps, or in the throws of a shitty relationship. But it’s true. It doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t happen without effort, or painstaking insight…taking a good, hard look at the mistakes you’ve made, or are currently making, and making a damn genuine effort to do the work to change it. It’s not easy. But it is SO worth it.

So, I sit here today. A woman who has experienced both sides of life. One with little insight and effort, and one in which I’ve taken a good, honest look at where I am, and where I want to be. I understand now more than ever, the old adage: Nothing good ever comes easy. It’s so dead on.  Remove the excuses. Toss out the bitterness. And just do the work to make it all happen. The reward is really interesting and incredibly ironic. If you do the work, it all suddenly becomes very, very easy.

Back to my initial question. What do you follow? Your heart, head, or…ya know. I think I’ve learned that it’s a bit of a mixture…a decision stew. With your heart leading the way, and your head and crazy 30-something sex drive riding along in the passenger seat. And never, ever, forget - or worse, ignore - your gut. It used to save you from wooly mammoths. Nowadays it saves you from unruly men. And may bring to you someone you never, ever expected.

There are so many positive things that come with getting older. We grow in confidence. We become more comfortable in our own skin. Great friendships become deeper, and the toxic ones have a way of falling by the wayside. In short, it’s easier to hone in on what’s truly important. Life just becomes more, well…more genuinely fun. One drawback however, is the toll that fun can have on a slightly more mature body.  Take, for example, the socially-packed weekend.

To a twenty-something, a weekend full of activities is an expectation. Missing even the most ridiculous of events is unacceptable, because responsibilities and recovery time are fairly nonexistent.  But to the thirty-something, a weekend full of social commitments - although just as entertaining as always - can wreak havoc on the body and the early week’s productivity.

I just had one of those weekends. Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast…more fun and interesting than most of my recent social outings. But boy am I paying for it now. Yes, I am still paying for it.  Can I get a “hell yeah” from my fellow gal pals!

Let’s break this down. Friday night was meant to be quite tame, and by all accounts it was just that. Susan hosted our 3rd Girl’s Night Out…a low-key eating/sipping soiree at her seemingly professionally decorated apartment. We each brought our own little dish (so very mature of us) and settled in for a night of chatting and Olympic viewing. We did both, of course, but before I knew it, the intended “early night” had turned into not so early, and with big plans looming for Saturday, I finally peeled myself away and attempted to turn in before late night became early morning.

Saturday was a different story. Susan and I had been invited to a “Party Like A Rockstar” event held at Warehouse Live - a music venue just across the freeway from Minute Maid Park.  After getting lost and arriving an hour or so later than expected, we dragged our slightly tired (and costumed) bodies into the crowded building full of Jim Morrisons, Gwen Stefanis, Sono Bonos, and (my personal favorite) Bret Michaels (I’m posting one of those pics just for you, Dawn). 80s Madonna (Susan) and Sheryl Crow (me) weaved through the crowd and bellied up to the bar for a “free” Coors Light. An hour or so into the festivities, as we continued to critique costumes, Susan turned to me and said:

 ”Are you bored?”

“A little bit, yeah. But let’s stick it out.”

Well, we certainly did that. Moments later, we met up with a crew of interesting and fun folks (shout out to my new reader, Ramesh, and his buddy Omar)…and, as often is the case, things took off from there. Before I knew it we were illegally shuttled into the private after party, full of interesting characters and the third band of the night. We literally partied like rockstars…with rockstars. That, of course, was not enough, we had to leave and continue the party. When we finally took our leave for the night - tired and ready to crawl into our respective beds, Susan gasped.

“What? What is it!” I said, fearing something had gone terribly wrong with her car.

“Nikki!  It is 5 a.m.!”

“It can’t be!” I shrieked.

Susan pointed at the dashboard clock.  And that’s when I knew. I knew I was going to be in hell for the next two days. So, here I am on Monday night, still fairly listless, and dreaming of tomorrow. Because, I know, as I’m sure you do my darling thirty-somethings, that one full night of sleep does not a recovery make. These days, we need a full forty-eight hours to return back to our fully-functioning human form.  As the classic Broadway songstress, Annie, croons: “The sun’ll come out tomorrow.” I, for one, can’t wait. I need my wits about me to start planning for the upcoming weekend. A girl must have her priorities.

There are days when I can’t believe how fast the past twenty years have flown by.  Wasn’t I hanging out in Duddley’s Draw just yesterday, promising to go to class “as soon as we finish up this next ($1.75) pitcher”? And my years at Ogilvy - the first few in Houston, surrounded by hilarious co-workers, traveling from tradeshow to tradeshow, and vowing never to step foot in Las Vegas again (never say never).  Then off to Ogilvy in New York - several accounts, new, lifelong friends, countless amazing and sometimes trying experiences - and, of course, 9/11.  How has it been five years since I’ve been back home…wading my way through the world of freelance and children’s books and the Texas dating scene? How is it possible?

Most days I feel like a kid. Still trying to figure out what I wanna be when I grow up…dreaming about ways to make my mark in this world, and, outside of an occasional aching back, feeling pretty much like I did when I still carried my sister’s expired driver’s license.

But there’s the occasional day, when I see my thirty-something face in the harsh light of reality. Like today, in the dressing room at Buffalo Exchange (a high-end, funky, second-hand store frequented by clientele of all ages). Packed with an armful of blue jeans, I carefully navigate my way around a giggling group of teenage girls - likely doing some last minute shopping in preparation for that first, nerve-wracking day of school.

I close the inadequate dressing room curtain and take a quick peek out at the girls in the waiting area. Half of them chattering away on the phone, the other half texting, all of them simultaneously dissecting outfits and boyfriends. I look in the mirror. I haven’t taken a shower today. My hair is a bit, well, slick - pulled back into a loose ponytail. Minimal make-up…enough to get by. I look a little tired, and the lines on my forehead are pronounced. Another look at the girls…not a line on their faces. Am I really 20 years older than them? They’re not babies. It wasn’t so long ago that I was 20 years older than babies. Now I’m 20 years older than 17-year-olds. How is that possible?

After a frustrating hour of trying on a mountain of clothing (most too small to pull over my thirty-something hips), I amble to my car in the blistering heat. I’ve just started my period (sorry boys), I’m bloated, and I need TCBY…like now.  I’m a woman on a mission, and 15 minutes later I’m scooping spoonfuls of the heavenly yogurt into my mouth while expertly navigating the rush hour Kirby traffic. It’s time to go home, put on a hydrating mask, and slather on some anti-aging cream.

Then it’s time to recall all the unbelievable things I’ve experienced in my life and all the hopes and dreams I have for the future. It’s also time to remember the insecure hell that was life as a 17-year-old girl, and how grateful I am to be past it…happy, confident and wise. I may have a few lines on my face, but at least I’m done, forever, with dateless dances, Geometry and countless hours of detention. And I can legally drink. I’m opening the Cabernet now.

In many ways, I am my father’s daughter. The dry sense of humor, the slightly hooked nose, and the tendency, in certain areas of my life, to be a ‘creature of habit’. I balance that last trait out with a tendency, as well, to be a ridiculous dreamer, open and searching for new experiences. As most of us are, I am a dichotomy…and in the areas where my ‘creature of habit’ psychoses poke out their little heads, it’s possible I can be a bit, well, rigid. Don’t judge. It is for good reason.

For example, today I went to get a much-needed pedicure (a luxury I’ve become addicted to since my days in NYC). I decided, before going in, that this time, I was going to mix things up. Step away from my nail polish rigidity. Try to inject a little bit of the dreamer into an area I’ve kept it hidden. And so I scanned the rows and rows of choices. My eyes continued to move past my old favorite - a color the perfect mix of red and pink, with a dash of sparkly orange. But I held strong, and finally settled on a brighter orange-red. After the ‘nail specialist’ pried if from my nervous hands, I sat back to enjoy the calf massage and read about the details of Jennifer Garner’s pregnancy.

Now I’m home, and, I gotta be honest. I’m not liking the color. It doesn’t have the same sheen. It won’t go as well with my blue dress.  And I want to wrap my own nuckles for doubting my instincts.  Forgive me, my perfect mix of red, pink and orange. You will adorn me again in approximately three weeks. I apologize for my infidelity…I was drunk.

I’m off to view more Olympics. The women’s (or severely growth-stunted girl’s) gymnastic team is going for the gold, and I must cheer them on.  It’s gonna be a nail-biter.  A perfectly manicured nail-biter.

Well, hello, my friends.  After a month of life in the dark abyss of book editing, I have once again joined the land of the living.  My nights are free…free to communicate with you, or take a ridiculously expensive trip to Whole Foods, or drink wine with friends, or watch the Olympics and late-night trash TV.  In short, I have my life back.  Outside of a lingering epilogue, the book is complete!  More than a year of toiling away is happily in my rearview mirror, and although the feeling of accomplishment is sweet, the feeling of relief outweighs it like the African elephant outweighs the American house flea.  I think I’ve made my point.

I hope you’ve missed me, because I have missed you dearly. Spending time with a bossy salamander, a goofy frog and a crabby dragonfly begins to wear on a girl. I need my adult time. I need to talk about disappointing or extremely hot men, the latest fashion find, the effects of cats on your social life and why my hair always looks better on Wednesdays. It’s an odd thing. But midweek is quickly approaching, and I need a social outlet to show off the hump day hair anomaly. Pass on any ideas, Houston ladies…my ears are open.

I also have big cell phone news. I got a new one this past weekend, and if it’s possible to love an inanimate object, I, my dear readers, am smitten.  The clear, colorful touch screen; the soft yet authoritative key tones; the full keyboard - perfect for further intensifying my obsession with text messaging; but most important is what my LG Voyager is not: my former nemesis - the very stylish, but nervous breakdown-inducing LG Chocolate. Die, Chocolate…die. I will forever loathe you and curse your memory. It is time to surrender. You have been exiled to the junk drawer…never to be seen or heard from again. More stress off my back. I am practically floating.

I know I’m all over the board tonight, but we’ve so much to talk about. Did you see the men (including Michael Phelps) win the free medley last night? How did your heart handle that last stretch?  It was pumping pretty good, wasn’t it? And when they won “by a fingertip”, did you scream like a little girl? My mother, who was sitting next to me, may have broken my eardrum. But I didn’t care. Because I broke hers, too.  And then we jumped up and down, grabbed each other’s hands, and pumped them in the air. If I could have stepped on a makeshift podium, I would have done that as well.  I’m just saying. (See pics of the sweet moment of victory here: http://www.nbcolympics.com/swimming/photos/galleryid=194011.html.)

After my blood pressure returned to normal, I walked upstairs to my childhood bedroom. Why? Because my parents were leaving for an Alaskan cruise in the morning (I know…I, too, despise them), and I was volunteered to take them to the airport for their very early morning flight. Now, I’m not sure if your father stresses about traveling, but I honestly believe mine does so at a level that prohibits him from fully enjoying a vacation. Their ship just pulled out of Vancouver a few hours ago - headed for breathtaking glaciers, whale watching and salmon dishes galore. And when my father goes to sleep tonight, on the front end of this once-in-a-lifetime trip, he will sleep fitfully - worried sick that they will miss their connection in the Minneapolis airport on the way back home. Or he will drink enough beer and wine to let it go and throw caution to the wind. I’m sending good vibes your way, Daddy. Let it be, Daddy. Let it be.

I must take my leave now. Michael Phelps’ next race is approaching, and I need to lubricate my throat before the shrieking begins. Unsuspecting cats will be leaping from the couch, I know this to be. And I’m giggling in anticipation.

Thank you for your patience these past few weeks. You will be handsomely rewarded. Someday. Probably not by me personally, but does that really matter?