Sunday, January 1, 2012

So it begins...

I wrote my first post almost a year ago. Then I forgot about the blog.

I had an idea. I wanted to begin blogging about the single life. Then I met someone wonderful. Someone so amazingly perfect for me that he made forget what it was like to be single.

Here I am, celebrating a new year with someone I love and facing a new set of problems. We want to get married and there seem to be a ton of obstacles to overcome. So I will attempt to blog again, but this time about my journey to marriage.

The title will remain the same...Sunday Kind of Love. Because that's what is still ultimately all about, a love to last past Saturday night.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

I want a Sunday kind of love

It's a song by Etta James. Perhaps you've heard it. When searching for a title of this blog, it seemed the most appropriate.
I want a Sunday kind of love
A love to last past Saturday night
And I'd like to know it's more than love at first sight
I've been single a long time. Too long. In my years of dating, heartbreak, hope, disappointment and frustration I've learned a lot. Sort of like Sex and the City but without all the expensive designer clothes and glamorous add in a little ethnic flavor and you have my life: a Hispanic 30-something single woman living in Los Angeles with her single girlfriends.

I was recently in Las Vegas with friends celebrating a birthday. We were at a club drinking, dancing and being single girls. I circled the club in a sparkly dress seeking out someone to dance with, filrt with, who would make an otherwise ordinary evening a little more interesting.

I call it "Taking a Lap". When the evening hits a lull and there's no one interesting around to talk to I tell my friend "I'm going to take a lap". I take a stroll around the bar or club and see if there's anyone interesting to talk to. Taking a lap also includes lots of eye contact and smiling. Most of the time it's successful, at the very least it results in having a guy buy me a drink and perhaps some amusing conversation.

The Vegas club was crowded and loud. There were girls dancing on risers, some of them wearing plastic birthday tiaras or little bridal veils. I leaned up against a railing and took in the view. In a completely predatory  move I set my sights on the youngest and slowest of the gazelle herd. He looked like a big overgrown kid who had been dressed up in a suit for Easter by his mom. Except now he was sweaty and disheveled. His shirt was partially untucked, the tie was loosed and his cherub round face was flushed red from drinking too much. I watched as he drunkenly fumbled around trying to talk to girls who were his age but clearly were not interested.

I was already a little tipsy, and he was easy prey. I lurked and waited with an intense gaze set on upon him. After a few moments he found me, I stared and smiled. He approached. Game on.  He was a young kid from Texas in town with his family for a convention. I met the brothers, uncles, assorted cousins and business associates who were all amused that the 'kid' had found a girl willing to give him some attention.

"Maria, you're beautiful, would you like a drink?"  By the way Maria isn't my real name, its' the name I give out in Vegas. The kid wasn't getting my number, my real name or any contact beyond that evening at the club.  After two drinks I was even more drunk when he asked me if I wanted to dance. The alcohol, the lights, the music, the crowds made everything in my mind move sluggish. I didn't even realize that the big lumbering giant from Texas had suddenly wrapped his arms around my waist lifted me off the dance floor and spun me around. He was amused that I was shrieking and screaming for him to put me down. My arms were flailing about in front of me.

He bent over to put me back down and I had a drunken memory of arms outstretched in front of me. I was leaning back....back...back...farther back. I was falling!!! In a muffled thud I landed on the floor and the mighty drunken kid wonder pinned me to the dance floor.  I was trapped underneath the carnage and dying of embarrassment. I'm not sure how long I stayed like that. Eventually a bouncer swooped in to rescue me.

The bouncer was an equally large and intimidating man in a black suit wearing an ear piece. He peeled the large sweaty kid off me in one quick gesture and told him he was going to get kicked out of the club for his sloppy behavior. Then he helped me to my feet and asked if I was ok. I pulled him close, latched on to his arm and asked him to get me out of there. He escorted me through the crowd, back to the bar where my girls were still dancing. 

I ended the evening in the ladies restroom. It wasn't until the next day that I would feel the soreness from a partially twisted ankle. I was tipsy, my feet hurt from my uncomfortable stilettos and as I sat on the toilet with my Spanx around my knees I slumped over in sadness.

This is not what I want anymore. I hate being single.

As the music and chattering conversation bustled around me in the crowded restroom I thought about how I was so tired of searching, hoping, waiting to find a real lasting relationship. More than anything I wanted to be home, with a family.