Literally, Genevieve Clare

Relationship Status: GET OFF ME.

Over the past few years, as my Facebook dashboard has evolved into Fetusbook and F-ingHugeRingbook, I’ve realized that I’ve grown further and further away from those things as I’ve gotten older.  I think New York infantilizes you to a certain extent, and I’ve seen that in myself since moving out of the South.  

In college, my best friend Oscar and I had serious babysitting jobs in Winston-Salem.  We kept car seats in the back of our SUVs and sat in the pre-school carpool line each afternoon to pick up our munchkins.  We’d take them on walks or to the pool and feed them waffle fries at Chick-fil-A.  We felt like responsible young mothers and got excited for our own some day.  We loved it, but at 6 pm, we got to give them back and go get drunk.

More and more of my friends have signed up for the real thing lately, and I’ve gone in the opposite direction.  They own homes, crib linens and KitchenAid mixers.  My most serious commitment is that Pete and I promised we wouldn’t break up before May 2010, when our lease is up – and if we do, he gets the flat screen.  And other than my job, I have very little responsibility.  My groceries are delivered by Fresh Direct, I take my laundry across the street to a lovely man who does it for me, and my bills are paid automatically online.  My weekends are spent dancing in basements at Lower East Side dive bars, laughing through four-hour brunches, and rambling around this city.  

Getting a pedicure feels like a major accomplishment.  I go out to dinner at 9 pm on a Sunday night just because I can.  My biggest mistake this year was dying my hair brown.  I don’t have enough money to support a hamster, much less a small human, and I like it that way.  My very last penny will be spent on a romper this weekend, which really should only be worn by someone who still measures their life in semesters.  

It drives me crazy when people tell me that my boyfriend won’t ever propose because we’re living together.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the words “getting the milk for free” in the past three months.  To those people, I say: “Bite me.  I’ll tell you when my boyfriend will propose to me.  WHEN I TELL HIM TO.  Now go get back in your station wagon.”  I’ve never understood girls who were in the dark about their engagement, waiting on someone else to dictate a decision about the rest of their life.  Marriage is the most mutual decision there is, and I will damn well know when it’s time for someone to put a blood diamond on my finger.  I’m in love, but I’m not in a hurry.

I realize that these aren’t exactly groundbreaking feelings.  This may as well be called the “Twenty-Something Girl in New York’s Manifesto.”  But it’s safe to say that this is the most selfish time of my life, and I’m incredibly grateful for it.  Years from now, when I’m up feeding a baby in the middle of the night, I’ll be at peace, knowing that I gave myself time to grow up, and figure out what I wanted out of life and who I wanted to be.

To each his own.  And right now, I’m so happy that my own is just me.

Rant FIN.