If you’re anything like me, nothing bothers you more than a sloppy-looking, chipped manicure. Because you never know when you might meet a hot guy or get asked out on a last minute date, it’s super important to be able to master the art of the at-home manicure since you won’t always have time for a nail salon pit stop! Trust me when I tell you that men will notice if you’ve got jacked up nails (my ex used to tell me that he didn’t remember what I wore on our first date, but he remembered that he really liked my brown nail polish)!
I love nail polish! The first time my cleaning lady came to my house she told me that she had never before seen anyone with as big of a nail polish collection as me.
It’s true. I have a bit of an obsession with nail polish; an addiction if you will.
While many girls enjoy treating themselves to a relaxing mani / pedi at the nail salon, the thought of going to one of those places totally skeeves me out. All I can think about is how many dirty feet touched the water basin, how many were scrubbed by the loofah bar, and how many nails were filed with the nail file, among other things.
I just can’t.
I probably wasn’t ready to get married.
I dated my ex-husband for two years before we got engaged. We were engaged for a year and a half before our big, lavish wedding. We got divorced four years later.
Looking back now, I’m not quite sure that I was as mature enough for marriage as I had thought I was. Truthfully, I’m pretty sure I didn’t even think about whether or not my maturity should even be a factor. The harsh reality is, I wasn’t exactly “marriage material” at the time.
Even though I recently put my list of non-negotiable out into the world in the hopes that the universe would deliver me my perfect man, I have decided that while I wait for Mother Nature to do her thing, I am going to be taking a little dating hiatus, or love sabbatical, as I like to call it.
I’m really not sure why I even bother to get my hopes up anymore when it comes to dating. Yet, once again, I’ve found myself disappointed after what I thought may have been a potentially decent candidate. Mike sent me a message on one of my dating apps. He appeared cute, in an understated way, and a little nerdy. Totally not my type at all, but his profile seemed above-average normal, he was within my desired age bracket, and he lived less than 50 miles away (score!). Besides, he sent a cute first message, which consisted of more than “hi” or “omg you’re so beautiful, how are you singl…”(snore.) So I decided to play along and respond, especially since I’ve been getting major shit from my friends for being “too picky” lately (sometimes I let them watch me swipe through Tinder. Bad move.)
After my psychotic episode things were really good between Harry and me for the next three months. We had fallen back into our normal routine and I did my best not to pester him about our “status” and to just go with the flow.
My best friend, Harry, is a sex addict. Or at least that was the story we were going with, up until a couple of months ago when he miraculously had a “come to Jesus” moment (or rather more like a “I think I’ll try to be a good boy for a little while, just to see how long I can stand it” moment) and decided to stop sleeping with anything with a vagina and a car. For a while there, his bedroom was a revolving door of women, sometimes too many for me to keep track of, all vying for Harry’s love and attention. There were times I wish I could have warned some of these poor ladies, since nobody knows what a futile task it is to try to win Harry’s heart more than I do, but being his “bestie” I could only listen, often laugh (sorry – terrible, I know), and attempt, unsuccessfully, to beat some sense into his thick head. The truth is, it wouldn’t have mattered what, if anything, I had said to any women in his life, because there is just something about Harry that can make even the most sensible woman lose her goddamn mind.