I forgot how great a queen-sized bed can be when you allow yourself to sleep on more than a quarter of it, surrounded by a sea of 12 pillows. I’ve always felt like the other half was reserved for someone else, someone that only slept with one pillow and threw the rest to the floor. In my mind they’d be back anytime now so I’d better not let myself get too comfortable. This is the way I’ve been sleeping (read: tossing and turning) for years—afraid of disturbing the ghost that slept with me. The truth? They’re not coming back. Even if they wanted to, I don’t think I would let them. I no longer care about their number of pillow or side of the bed preferences. I’m taking both sides, with all the pillows.
I forgot how nice brewing an entire pot of coffee for yourself in an empty apartment is, filled only with the sounds of Sheryl Crow and U2. Someday I want to live in a household where mornings start with a full pot of coffee made, sitting on a coaster of some sort in the middle of our long wooden breakfast table. None of that one cup Keurig crap. One flavor for you, another for me, brewed separately. We’ll have the real deal, the kind where we’ll have to replace the glass pot every now and then because of the number of times you’ll break it. I’ll be putting together the kids’ lunches and you’ll be reading the morning’s Times, relaying the facts of the day to me over your shoulder. I have no idea how that coffee is going to stay hot. Will it? Or will we just have to choke down the first scorching cup so we have enough time for the second round, which will be just the perfect temperature? The tips of tongues irritated, forgotten about until we kiss goodbye for the day.
I’ve never been the type of gal that had a problem being alone. If there’s one thing I’ve ever been sure of in this life it’s that I do not need anyone else to complete me. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. One of my favorite stories my mother tells from my childhood is how I would hold my own hand while crossing the street. Such a wise little four-year-old, without a fear of getting hit by a car, snatched by a stranger. That toddler needed nobody. That’s not to say that if she did, Mama wasn’t right behind her. She still is.
I have no idea who you are yet, and I don’t think I’m going to find you on some cheap dating site or drunk in a bar some night. And that’s okay, I can wait. So stop telling me that’s the way it’s done these days, that these are the things I need to start doing. I don’t. And I won’t. Let me romanticize for a bit longer. Let me search the faces in bookstores and coffee shops, convincing myself for twenty minutes that yes, they’re the one. And when they’re not, let me go to bed at 10 pm on a Saturday night with my documentaries and glass of Chianti. Maybe I’ll make some woman very happy someday, or maybe I’ll just make myself very happy. But I plan on doing both. Just not yet.
“I am no damsel in distress. I am not impressed by your shining armor. I can fight my own battles. You don’t have to rescue me, sweetheart, but you’re welcome to join me in my kingdom anytime. First, show me your battle scars and tell me your war story. You might be just another frog who needs rescuing. In which case, you picked the wrong princess.”
A native Upstate New Yorker turned Brooklynite, Bridget is a coffee-drinking, wine-tasting, book-reading, rock ‘n’ roll loving, restless soul. After graduating with a bachelor’s degree, (and feeling trapped within the confines and the “rules” of hard news), Bridget scrapped the journalistic approach and now spends her time writing in circles and trying to create something worth leaving behind. More ramblings can be found on her blog, www.bridgetwoznica.com.
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