“Can you be in love with an inanimate object?” I asked.

“In love with said object? Or just love it?” imaginary friend replied.

“In love. Like giddy. Lovesick. I miss them when I’m away.”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, can you procreate with this thing?”

“God, I wish I could. We need more of them in the world.”

“Alright, enough of the elusive banter. What the hell is it?” (Even imaginary friends lose their patience).

And so I describe them. In all their full, beautiful glory. The perfect height…not too high, not too low. The way they hug (but not too tightly) my chicken calves. The soft, supple skin…the perfect shade of dark bronze. The subtle curves, dressy, but not too. Sexy, but in a naive, teasing manner. Engaging and alluring to men and women alike. They are, quite possibly, the most perfect pair of boots ever created. And they are mine. In brown suede…and black (I’m no dummy).

First, let me thank the Academy. And then Michael Kors for his expert design insight and ability to sell in bulk to DSW (so that I can afford said perfect foot ornamentation).

“I’m intrigued. Can I see them? I must see them,” imaginary friend coos.

“I can’t.”

“What?  Why?”

“I’m afraid you’ll go out and buy them. And I can’t have that.”

“Because…”

“Because last weekend…when I wore the boots with my new cute knit dress…”

“That is a cute dress. Where’d you get that?” she interrupts.

“Not telling. So, as I was saying…last weekend, when I wore the boots, I was told - by a married man…a respectable one…one who doesn’t cheat…”

“Does that exist?”

“Quit interrupting. Yes, they do exist. And he told me that I needed to walk away. That the combo of the knit dress and the amazing boots was ‘dangerous’.”

“Oooooh!”

“Uh huh.  Dangerous.  Because they’re so…well, perfect.  I saw people staring at them. A big guy…looked like an oafy football player - you know, the kind who wouldn’t know fashion from fiddle playing?”

“Yeah, I know him. I think I used to date him.”

“Well, he yelled across a patio full of people.”

“What’d he say? Did he wanna know the score of the Texas game?”

“No, this was Friday night.”

“Oh.”

“He said, ‘Hey - kick ass boots!’…and he was with a table of girls. And they started ogling them, too. There were high-pitched squeals involved.”

“And now you don’t want anyone else to have these magic boots…because you’re drunk on their power.”

“Yes.”

“You would be an awful monarch.”

“I know. I like the attention too much. I’d come to expect it. Maybe even demand it.”

“But you’re a kind person. You’re an amazing friend. You’ve always put others before yourself.”

“I’m not showing you the boots.”

“Bitch.”

“Yes.  Now, where did I put that damn crown?”

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.

What’s the best part about meeting up with old friends?  Is it sharing new stories or reliving old?  Showing pictures of families and children and trips to Mexico?  Or spending a precious few hours away from present-day commitments?

All of the above are certainly side benefits…and important in and of themselves.  But are they the best part of the get-together?  Hmmm…I think not.  To me, at least, the winner is much less obvious…a subtle transformation that weaves its way into every word, every gesture, every action.  It is the downhill slide of maturity.  The inevitable decline of thirty-something women to their former teen personas.  As the first layers of wife, mother and executive are shed, and the first of many Cape Cods (doubles) are consumed, conversation subject matter quickly devolves.  The topic of boys, fashion and embarrassing moments trump all.  An innocent couple pawing each other in nearby lounge chairs - you know, the muscle head (who shaves his chest) and his bleach blonde partner…well, they’re subtly and methodically reduced to a pulp.  They’re unaware, of course, of our nitpicking and giggles…unaware that we’ve attributed the tiny little bulge in his tight, black speedo to years of steroid abuse, or that his massive pectorals are not revered in our eyes, but, on the contrary, seen as a thinly veiled attempt to overcompensate for the more important, and lacking, muscle below.

Moments later, when a member of our own crew (who will remain anonamous) must again make the long trek from the bustling pool to the water soaked cabana restrooms, the barrage of questions commence:

“Why are you going to the bathroom again, ‘Janey’?”

“Aunt Flo come to visit, ‘Janey’?”

“I think I see a string, ‘Janey’!”

‘Janey’ rolls her eyes and slinks away, mortally embarrassed that her secret has been revealed.  Because, remember, we are suddenly sixteen.  And haven’t been dealing with menstruation for twenty years.  And the thought that your girlfriends know your “situation” and the fear that there might be a mishap in white pants (or a cute little bathing suit) is on par with the captain of the football team hearing you fart in Miss Hall’s 4th period Algebra class.  Resulting in death by mortification.

Later, when we decide to get cleaned up and head out on the town (because we have teen stamina and five hours partying by the pool isn’t nearly enough), ‘Janey’ continues to deal with the harrassment.  As she closes the hotel bathroom door, something apparently forbidden in a room-full of highschool mean girls, the chiding begins again.  Because why wouldn’t it.  And so ‘Janey’s’ had enough (and she gets her gun…ha - no), and she screams out a sad attempt at a counter attack.  Something like:

“Well, at least I wasn’t caught in my parent’s bedroom with Unibrow Cordoza!” she cries.

“No, but you made out with that fool ’Ricky Bearden’…that guy couldn’t string two words together,” the crowd fires back.

“Hey!  He was hot!”

“Hurry up, ‘Janey’!  And try not to sully the towels!” (Giggle, giggle, giggle).

Two hours later.  Crowded bar.  Drinking games begin.  “I Never”, and “Celebrity Names”, and had we possessed spare change, “Quarters” would have made the cut, too.

Random English guy joins in.  He’s much older than us.  Like our Grandpa’s age.  Like fifty or something.  Totally gross.  And he zeroes in on ‘Janey’, because he likes ’sixteen-year-olds’ (in the body of a thirty-something), and she hasn’t suffered enough abuse today.  And when we finally get that coveted table near the band, and ‘Janey’ has to take yet another trip to the bathroom, the razzing doesn’t cease because we have an English grandpa in tow, oh no.  When ‘Janey’ returns to the table, she finds a giggling pack and a seat-full of this:

 There’s a theme here…I think you’ve picked up on it.  ’Janey’ runs to the principle’s office and vows to have the evil ‘Patty’ kicked off the cheerleading squad.

Creepy English man then asks ‘Janey’ for her number.  But the hours of abuse have strengthened her resolve.  She refuses his request.  As he gets up to leave, he slips a piece of paper into her hands.  His number, of course.  And as soon as he’s out of sight, she passes it to ‘Heather’.

“Johnny wanted you to have this,” she says. The table bursts into girly fits of laughter.

‘Heather’ passes the slip to ‘Mary’. 

“I think this was meant for you.” More laughter.  And then ‘Janey’ goes to the restroom, and the cycle begins again.

The next morning, as we pack our belongings and say our goodbye’s (to each other and to our teen alter egos), we giggle one last time - and then hold our pounding heads.  It’s time to get back to husbands, and children and jobs and life.  It’s time to be responsible.  But we’ve learned something…again.  You never really grow up.  You don’t really lose that childhood wonder…unless you ignore those that lived it beside you.  And there ain’t a chance in hell we’re gonna do that.  See you soon girls!  ‘Janey’s’ told me she’ll plan the next escapade…around her schedule.  And ‘Janey’s’ a master investigator.  Which means ‘Patty’ will be packing some feminine protection…and hopefully a thick skin.

(Looks for pics of get-together in Paparazzi folder soon)

I was given a challenge last night.  And I don’t pass up challenges.  It’s not a trait I necessarily consider a strength, because, really, there are some pretty asanine things that follow:  “I bet you can’t (or won’t)…”  But the words stir up my competitive juices, and I soon find myself calling up an ex-boyfriend from ten years past, attempting to create a new nighttime fashion trend which revolves around string bikini tops, making out with a 20-something man-child, or…creating a blog entry out of nothing.  That would be my challenge tonight.  The Seinfeld blog.

Nikki (on phone with Susan): “What should I write my blog about tonight?  I’m drawing a blank.”

Susan: “Hmmm.  That’s a toughie.  And I’m afraid I’ll be of no help.  I can only think of the laundry I need to fold.”

Nikki: (joking) “Maybe I should write one about doing laundry.”

Susan: “I bet you can’t.”

Nikki: (oh, shit…here we go) “Watch me.”

So, here we are.  On the precipice of a blog entry about one of our most mundane tasks.  And I’m wondering how many of you are still with me, and how many have flipped back over to Perez Hilton or the Bachelorette recaps…or maybe even resumed work.  If your loyalty has guilted you into sticking this one out, hold onto your color safe guard detergent…this is gonna go in a direction you never imagined.

When this challenge guantlet was thrown down, it took mere seconds for me to hone in on a story angle.  And that angle is:  Sometimes I’m really glad I’m still single.  Especially when it comes to laundry.  Is it because I don’t want to take on the added piles of dirty clothes or pick sweaty socks out of smelly tennis shoes?  All valid reasons, but, no, they’re not my chief concerns.  The truth is, when I finally shack up with my meant-to-be, there are things I’d like to keep to myself.  Like the fact that the little cloth strip inside a girl’s undies can tell a story.  And it’s not always a pristine one.  Now, I’m not talking about the obvious 5-7 days of hell each month…a girl prepares well for that time…we’re on high alert and armed with a purse or cabinet-full of plugs and pantyliners.  Should a mishap occur, situations are usually rectified in moments and evidence is all but erased before it reaches the laundry bin.  No, I’m talking about mid-month…those days when pregnancy (if you’re not careful) is probable, and black panties are not your friend.  I don’t want my meant-to-be to see that.  I’d like to retain a little mystery.  So sue me.

 ”I wouldn’t worry about that, Nikki,” you’re thinking.  “What man is going to offer to do the laundry?”

Good point.  But remember…I am 30-something.  My future lover-boy will likely be the same or older.  He will have lived on his own for awhile.  (I’ve gone down the path of the recently broken up…I won’t be doing it again…trust me.  A little advice, you shouldn’t do it either.)  So, my not-fresh-from-another-relationship soulmate will be self-sufficient.  He will know how to do his own laundry.  And he will be so smitten, he will offer to do mine.  And I will either decline his kind offer, or secretly wash the “panty” load on my own.  He’s a guy.  He probably won’t notice.  And the sweet, hot (oh, I didn’t mention he’s smokin’ hot?), distinguished, funny, well-read man will go on believing that my undies are all made of silk, are never tarnished with natural female, well, you know, and go into the washing machine just as lovely as when they come out.

“Nikki, you’re being ridiculous.”

No.  No.  I’m not.  Just as I don’t want him pointing a video camera at my hoo-ha when a baby’s head is crowning, I don’t want him to know the realities of ovulation and the havoc it wreaks on my skivvies.  I will also not be proudly tooting or burping in his presence (unless completely unavoidable).  Why?  Because if he’s farting the day away in his Laz-e-Boy, I probably won’t be dreaming of a romantic roll in the hay.  My guess is, if I’m doing the same, neither will he.  And I enjoy rolling in the hay.

A little old-fashioned?  Maybe.  But some hand-me-downs from the past aren’t so bad, are they?  Mix them in with your strong-willed, independent, fabulous self, and you’ve got one bad-ass gal with a man who occasionally hoists her up on a pedestal.  And how can that be wrong?

I went to bed last night thinking about this blog and where it would go.  And, for some reason, I had a long night of dreams about John Slattery.  Do you know who that is?  Actor.  Salt and pepper hair (well, mainly salt now). Plays “Roger Sterling” on that AMC show Mad Men about the advertising industry in the early 60’s (if you haven’t seen it, you’ve got to check it out).  And I think he also played Eva Longoria’s congressman or senator husband on Desperate Housewives (don’t really watch that one).  Anyway, he must signify something to me.  Maybe distinguished, mysterious…someone I’d clearly like to keep my panty secrets from.  When I lived in NYC, I saw him several times at the NYSC (New York Sports Club) I worked out at in the West Village.  On one occasion, we were even treadmill neighbors.  But I didn’t say a word.  Because I’m brave like that.  And, besides, it’s an unspoken rule in NYC…you just don’t bug ‘em.  Also, this was 5-6 years ago, I wasn’t exactly sure who he was…just knew I’d seen him before.  And that I wanted to take him to my tiny apartment…maybe for some tea (or a little bit of me).

I think where this whole twisting, turning (and a bit too revealing) blog has taken me, is to a realization.  I want a man.  Not a boy.  I want distinguished and confident…funny and smart.  Not immature and unsure…wishy washy and dependent.  I want someone that I feel comfortable with and proud of…someone that, ten years from now, I still want to impress.  And if that means taking on the full role of laundry to hide a few female secrets, then so be it.  I’ll reap the benefits in the sack.

“Beauty is only skin deep”. We all know what that means, don’t we? That real beauty exists on the inside. That a stunning face can hide a nasty spirit and that kindness, compassion, generosity and empathy can just as easily be overshadowed, or at the very least, overlooked, due to a less-than-perfect exterior. What this theory doesn’t take into consideration is that we don’t live in a black and white world. Internal and external traits are not mutually exclusive. And as much as we hate to admit it, our emotional happiness (or unhappiness) can be, in part, affected by how we, or others, judge us physically. Fair? Hell no. Reality? Hell yes. And here’s the part that very few of us are willing to say out loud: it’s okay to care.

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