vacuum.

Children.

I have never had any desire to have them. Ever. I view having children as the end of one's life. Once you have them, there are no more late nights. Your body droops and sags, your hormones run rampant, and you become undesirable to most men without kids of their own. Plus, in addition to needy people everywhere else in life--clients, parents, friends, siblings--you are now fully responsible for creating and releasing your very own human being into society.

But now I'm at the age where a "party" isn't an all-night bar crawl. It's sitting around a friend's living room because she can't afford a sitter--and since her child is there, all her other friends are welcome to bring their own. So there I am-- Holly in a room of mothers, all of whom are asking me if I have a boyfriend and when I'm going to have one of my own. If I say I don't want to, they insist that I will change my mind. I guarantee that I will not.

Am I less of a woman for this, I wonder? They wipe spit-up and baby poo off themselves like it's lint. They don't flinch when their child screams. They have entirely civil conversations with peers and then break out an angry disciplinary voice. Is that who I'll be? I have to be honest: I really hope not.

Photos of you and your baby are on the wall. Photos of the baby's daddy are there, as well. You and he live in the same apartment and have shared a life together for over six years, but you sleep in separate beds. Still, you tell me you aren't with him; that you've been broken up since August.

But when he comes home, you tell him hello. You're still having sex with him and no one else. You go on family outings. You make him dinner. Like it or not, you're living the American dream. Maybe one day you will make peace with this. Until then, I will support you in your insanity, even if no one else will. I get you. I'm not ready to live the American dream, either.

Silence

About three days ago, you stopped texting me. You haven't called since before the last time I actually saw you. I don't know if your'e done because I have done something wrong, if the sizzle has already fizzled, or if I'm simply overreacting. But dammit, I feel like I deserve to be chased a little. I feel like you should want to talk to me. Others do; they keep texting, calling, visiting, even kissing. You don't. You see me once a week and seldom contact me otherwise. Are you seeing other women?

Maybe that's the only reason you still interest me. You're mysterious and hard to catch; this entices me. I also know that it will be over any minute. You've lost interest, and this only makes me want to savor what I fear will be our last few outings even more.

Still, out of many choices, I want you. Kind, smart, successful, funny; a good person whose goals and views I actually admire. Please don't be done. Until you make up your mind, I will be sitting with my phone in one hand and head in the other, staring, hoping, and feeling forlorn...

Impoverished and hungry, I sat down tonight and ate a can of spinach for dinner. I did this because it was all I had. With $24 in my checking account and $118 due to my car insurance ompany before I get paid again, purchasing more, different or better food is simply not an option.

Eating my spinach, I thought about how I ended up in this situation. The root cause of all my frivolous spending, my self-indulgene and my misery always traces bac to a man. Without my previous fiance, I would theoretically not have had the opportunity to spend the $12,000 my grandmother left me in less than six months. Without the disaster-ogre that followed him, I would have saved thousands of dollars on groceries, going out to dinner, cmaping and camping gear, and unappreciated gifts. Even The Fling is partially to balme; $150 wasted on him and his family after just two months of casually seeing one another.

Without these men in my life, who never seem to give as much as I do, I realize that I still wouldn't be wealth. However, I would't be disowned, miserable, and eatig canned spinach on my broken futon after obtaining a professional degree. I wouldn't be staring at a TV for which I cannot afford cable, nor pondering how I will entertain myself when I read all the boks on my bookshelf.

Fuck the men; let's drink to us.

New Year.

So many times, I find myself wishing there were a reset button for life. I suppose New Year's Eve is as close as I'll ever get.

This year, I did many things. I clawed my way out of an unfortunate and miserable relationship that far outlived its passion. I graduated law school. I took the bar exam. I passed the bar exam. I got a job as an attorney. I got my own place. I started dating normal people. I'm refreshed by how simple life can be when you make the changes that you know you have to make. I'm also encouraged to think that anything is possible if you work hard enough for it.

So, I embark on the journey that I've always needed. Here's to you, 2011. Let's make it worthwhile.

Carol of the Bells.

Every year, it's progressively more terrible. You get a little more like grandma. I get a little less like you. We don't talk about anything of substance, and I count down the hours until it's socially acceptable to leave.

Guilt, from the minute I walk in the door through the phone call when I return home. Then you ask why I don't visit more.

Awful. One more week until this season of obligations, both financial and emotional, is over for another eleven months. It can't come soon enough.

In good humor?

"You're really funny. Most women aren't, but you are."

Maybe this is the cheesiest line anyone has ever said to me, but it struck a deeper chord for me than "you're beautiful" or "you have a nice body."

Dating is so awful. You play that game-- does he like me? Do I like him? What if he likes me more? What if he doesn't? What if this isn't really the right time for a relationship for one of us? Is this a rebound? Is it serious? Do I want it to be serious? He's attractive, but do I really want to spend my evenings and weekends with him? What if he doesn't like me? What if he has another girlfriend? What if his family hates me? What if he's bad in bed?

The list goes on. So, when someone says something about a genuine, unchanging part of my personality, it gets to me more than the superficial points. My body and face will change with time, but my humor won't. Maybe it was just a line, but it was the best one anyone has used on me in a long time.

It was freedom that I wanted, freedom that I got.

Everything has been left behind. I am a new person. Happier, more interesting, with better perspective on what I want and what matters in life.

Today, I have been in my own apartment with no serious visitors for almost 2 weeks. It's a lot of work. I do everything. The cooking, the cleaning, the bill paying, the laundry, taking care of the cat. I go to work every day, faithfully. My apartment is kind of sad--I can hear my neighbor's TV blasting through the floor at almost all hours; the maintenance man shakes items off my walls when he clears the ice from the path. But the freedom to go to the gym, to see friends, to visit my family, to have my family over when I want--it makes the misery of cleaning my car off every day and having a few cracks in the walls worthwhile.

At last, I am the person I have wanted to be since I was 16 years old. This may have been the "year of the tiger," but next year will be mine, no matter what sign it's formally associated with.

Do-over.

When my fiance and I split in 2007, my best friend told me that the relationship didn't really count. I was too young to be engaged, and our relationship was of the intense love/hate variety. So, she granted me a do-over.

This last one. I don't even know what to say about it. After just over three long years, it is finally, totally over. It was an obvious rebound that got much too serious much too quickly. Then, out of fear of hurting one another--and possibly fear that other options would be worse--we both stayed in an unhappy relationship for far too long.

I move in about a week. I feel nothing negative. No regret. No sadness. No shame about what I'm doing. For the first time in three years, I'm happy and looking forward to the next adventure.

Oh, my.

It's so annoying that you think you're some kind of god. You push around the "underlings" like they don't matter. You commit all varieties of malpractice every day. You are angry because life didn't turn out your way. Listen, sister, the dream didn't work out for me, but you don't see me running around acting like I own this place. Don't take it out on me ad don't take it out on the helpless new people, either.