First of all, I’ve got to stop using bad song lyrics as post titles. Secondly, I must warn you that this story isn’t pretty. It’s about a woman wondering if she’s reached her sell-by date — a woman who, last Thursday night, swanned out of her apartment feeling electric and found herself in the wrong place, in the wrong skin, with the wrong people. But in the right lip gloss (more on that later).
As you know, my delightful SYB Babes, I’m currently in a bit of a social slump. After my forays through online dating led me to a man with a cherry red accent scarf and a fairly obvious small dick complex, I stopped dating. And in general, I don’t know how to have a proper single woman’s social life! Most of my friends are married with kids. If they have time to hang out, it’s at playdates on the weekends. S0 most nights, you can find me refereeing bedtime disagreements between Bobina and her shadow (a feisty one, that shadow), eating my baby’s school snacks for dinner and obsessively researching Game of Thrones family dynasties. The Thrones thing is becoming a problem, actually — I’m dangerously close to writing fan fiction. Help.
Thank god one of my only single girlfriends — lets call her Heaving Bosoms — ambushed me last Thursday night, demanding I go to a birthday party for her neighbor, a hot single black attorney.
Me: I don’t know, I’m kinda doing a Parmesan Goldfish crackers thing tonight.
Heaving Bosoms: He said all his single friends were coming.
Me: Let’s do this.
And let me tell you, it was so exhilarating getting ready. I felt like I was 23 again, headed off to a drunken night of Leo DiCaprio-stalking at Life, the air ablaze with possibilities and…um…medicinal marijuana. I rocked my slinkiest ensemble – a banana yellow Asos tube skirt, white tank and pony skin wedges — and my new favorite lipgloss, Sephora Glossy Gloss Galore in Instant Flame Fucshia ($11). It’s the most sumptuous hot pink ever — the pigment is so rich and true, it’s actually as vivid on your lips as it is in the tube. And it when it does fade a little, it’s leaves a smudgey, just-bitten look to your lips that’s totally irresistible. I felt edible.
I walked into the third floor bar of the lavish members only club, nestled in a nondescript brownstone. There are men everywhere. Good looking, sexy, grown ass manly men in custom suits and good watches. And they were surrounded by a sea of giggling, fawning 20 year old girls. I’m not kidding, they were infants. Heaving Bosoms and I were older than every other chick by a good decade, and yet the men were our age. I instantly felt ridiculous in my highlighter-colored skirt. Why was I dressed like a Kardashian? What was I even doing there? Earlier, it had felt fun to get glammed up for a night on the town, like I was relieving my days as a dewy-eyed ingenue with the world at her feet — but I wasn’t 23 anymore. I was a divorced mother pushing 40 and my options were becoming increasingly limited. The single black men who are my professional peers are so sought-after, so few and far between, that they know they can have any woman they want. So the girls get younger, the men get older — and what becomes of the Beauty Shaker?
Needless to say, we got out of there, fast.
Girls, I don’t want to end up alone. I want to fall in love again, I want the motherfucking dream — I haven’t given up on it. But I don’t know how to navigate this world. Perhaps revisit the lesbian thing again? If you have any words of advice for this lost lady, please share.