It’s my first time.
I’ve never done it before, and I’m a little apprehensive.
I’m sure it will be fine, mind you, yet there’s that initial anxiety I’m going to have get over.
I hope I don’t cry…but it’s likely.
I may have to drink to get through it.
It’s Thanksgiving – by myself.

Cry me a river, right? Well, despite the fact that I will see my Mom on Friday (after much pleading, begging and the use of 25,000 Delta Skymiles), I’m still not looking forward to Turkey Day en solo.

I’m 26 years old and spending my first holiday alone.

We had plans – good plans, in fact, that fell through. My aunt & uncle in Charlotte are building a house (a gigantic house, at that) and instead of entertaining in their home as they’ve done in years past, they’re heading to Ohio. It would be 9 hours for me to get there; 11 hours to get to Cleveland. Driving, my friends, is not an option.

So we looked at flights. Ever tried to book last minute holiday travel? Not so pretty. We moved onto Frequent Flier Miles, but they didn’t work with my schedule, and I would essentially be in town for merely 36 hours. Didn’t seem worth it. Thankfully, was able to get my Mom to come down, and while we’re going to have a spectacular time, I still remain, Aubrey, Alone, on Thanksgiving.

Sad, ain’t it?

“Love is not a victory march,
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah”
-Jeff Buckley, Hallelujah

I was talking with a friend the other night and the topic turned to guys, relationships & love (as it invariably does over a bottle or two of wine). A beautiful girl, she was bemoaning the fact that she was single, questioning her current burgeoning relationship with not a small bit of frustration. Oh, how I understand…

Many girls in Atlanta are quick to blame the city for the seemingly barren landscape o’ men, yet I think it’s more than that. I have friends who have met fabulous guys in this city, dated them, even married them. And I hear the same gripe from friends in DC, Austin, Chicago, Boston, Raleigh…need I go on?

Some are blaming the “metrosexual”, the rise of the seemingly-gay-yet-straight men who spend more money on hair products than I do and who have been known to utter the statement “Does my ass look big in this?” There is even a quasi-backlash against the metrosexual that postulates that “we have become a nation of women.”

I think they’re missing the point.

Dating has never been easy, despite the idyllic stories our mothers and fathers told us of sock hops, letter sweaters and going steady. Racial tension, unexpected pregnancies, overbearing parents, and yes – even the “seemingly barren landscape o’ men”, surely frustrated women in generations past. The difference, however, is the women themselves.

Growing up, we were told we could do anything. Fly a plane? Sure! Become a Doctor, Lawyer, Geneticist? Yes, yes, and yes. With hard work, dedication, and persistance, we could meet our goals and exceed our expectations.

We took this advice to heart, many of us excelling in our schoolwork and now into our careers. Yet the one place where hard work, dedication and persistance does not pay off is the relationship arena. No matter how hard you try, how much effort you put forth, you can’t make someone love you, can’t make a relationship happen if it’s just not meant to be. The same actions, which have proven so successful in the past, just don’t work when it comes to love.

Aaah, the “L” word. The monosyllabic emotion that causes men to clam up and women to tear up. It’s the foundation of our lives, because when all is torn away, when all is gone, when we’re left with just the rubble at our feet, it’s love that keeps us going. It’s the foundation for many of us – it’s what we persistently continue to seek in the world. I’d go so far to say that for many, and perhaps even for myself, it’s the meaning of life.

If this is true, if any of my postulates above seem possible, you can understand why finding this elusive emotion is that important to us. Why people spend years looking for their partner, why dating services flourish and absolutely atrocious books like “The Rules” fly off shelves. Basically, we’re looking for some direction.

Your happily relationshipped friends (the very ones that Bridget Jones’ coined as “Smug Marrieds”), say you’ll find it when you least expect it. “Oh honey, why are you in a rush?” they ask. “You know, when my [insert twerpy name like Horton] and I first met, I didn’t think anything of him. And just look at us today!” Cue festive music, big smiles, and happily ever afters, because – voila! Just sit around, dearie, and continue to not expect it.

How can you wait for something you’re not supposed to be expecting?

Ah, the quandary of love. Stop, go; hot, cold; call, don’t call; play hard to get, let him know you’re interested – there’s mixed messages out there and nary a map, street sign or even a relationship “On-Star” system to guide us to the chapel. We hear that many relationships start out as friends…we’ve tried that. All too often, you find yourselves with the passion (and sex life) of an 70-year-old couple, as the newness and the excitement have faded before you even began. On other occasions you’re too afraid to mention anything, since you value the friendship too much. And there you are again, with the same ol’ quandary.

Where to turn? How to act? When to let him know you like him?

Hell, don’t look at me. I’m as single as they come.

I’m a fidgeter.
I fidget, I flit, I fret.
Fidgetophiles, world over, I am your kin.

I remember a magazine saying that fidgeters burn something like 100 additional calories per day, based solely on the fact that they can’t sit still. Hmm – I think that allows me an extra french fry or two, don’t you? Still, I wonder if I’ve always been like this. I know I can out-multi-task anyone (a challenge you don’t want to engage me in since I’m confident I’d win), but me as a fidgeter…when did that come about?

As I sit at my desk, my head swimming with so many thoughts, I find myself tapping my foot to “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”, just one of many oh-so random tunes that go through my head each day and cause me to have a rhythm in my step, in my foot tapping, and in the rest of my fidgets. Glory, Glory Hallelujah, indeed.

I wasn’t one of those kids with ADD, driving teachers to their wit’s end with the inability to sit still. No, I was a model student, minus that whole “pulling down the overhead screen and it falling off of the hooks and almost onto my head thus sending me to stand in the hall like the much-despised hooligans while I cowered in embarrasment” third grade incident. It’s only recently that I’ve found myself being the fidgeter that some (hopefully many) of you know and love (ok, I suppose ‘like’ will suffice.) And it’s taking over my life.

I can’t sit still, both literally and figuratively.

I’m a social gal, we all know it. I love to entertain, have parties and people over for dinner (ordered in, of course) and even a girl’s night with “Sex and the City” or “Alias.” My colloquial dance card, in fact, is usually quite full. I gripe about this on occasion, and lately, on many occasions, citing my long hours at work a source of my exhaustion. “Why don’t you take it easy this weekend?”, they say. “Stay in. Rest. Get some sleep.” And each weekend, I invariably try to do exactly that, to no avail. I literally can’t sit still, half afraid that I’d be missing the next ‘big thing’ but more feeling guilty about doing nothing.

There is peace in silence, lessons in solitude. Cutting out the distractions allows you to hear your inner voice, that quiet, guiding intuition that directs your decisions and your path. I know this, I like this, I long for this. But I don’t, for some reason, allow myself to have it very often. By sitting still, taking it easy, I feel like I’m wasting precious time.

I realize that I treat my life like my bank account. If I have, say, $600 in my account, I think of all the things I can buy to use every single penny of that, taking it down to nearly zero. I see it as the MAXIMUM that I can spend, and do so accordingly. The same with my life – if I have a weekend free, I fill it up. I’m applying the principle of exhaustion to both my bank account and my life. In both cases, I’m the one who’s going to suffer.

Basically, I’m tired. I need to recharge my batteries, take it easy, slow down. I need to go to bed earlier, concentrate on staying healthy, take care of myself. Yes, I’m still (relatively) young, but I’m wearing myself out.

Happy Hour on Thursday, anyone?

I’ve never owned a Kia.
My last name is not Miles.
And whether or not Tiny Tim has a Small Engine or not, I suppose you’ll have to go back to Google to find that out.

Yes, it’s another installment of the much-loved “What People are Searching on to Get to My Site!” And trust me, people, this one is fun…

Apparently, Altavista thinks that my site has the answer to “what kind of ignition does a kia sephia have inside” (um, a small one? A crappy one?). Yahoo finds me more of the party girl, thinking I need to go to more “texas frat parties”, wondering “how to be more than ‘just friends’ with a guy” (apparently, I’m not doing so well in this category) and perhaps thinks I have a bizarre fetish of “boys kissing shoes” (that comment was clearly misinterpreted by one of my ex’s, perhaps interchanging the word “ass” with “shoes.” Silly boy…)

My own beloved company, with a wonderful algorithm to provide you the most relevant of results (hear that Yahoo users? It’s about time to switch!), still has led a few visitors astray by sending them to my site to “see my jugs”. (Sorry, kids.) People are interested in seeing “wrightsville beach party pics”, and finding out “why girls are considered promiscuous and boys considered studs?” is a high priority. (It’s been searched on a lot lately.) Apparently, aubreysabala.com offers advice on “how to make your boyfriend want you aphrodesiac”, to which I reply, why is he your boyfriend if he doesn’t want you?

Oh, the power of the WORLD WIDE WEB (with emphasis as my darling Mom still says it). It brings people together. It provides you the answers of some of life’s greatest questions, such as “how long is Kirk Herbstreit” and why “Tucker Max [is a] drunk asshole alpha male”. It has events like “Miss Jumbo Queen 2003” (this one offended me, I must say) and many, many people are searching on “drunk girls threesome pictures.” (What do you all do all day, surf for porn?)

Still, most of my traffic is pretty relevant, at least the ones coming from Google. My name IS “Aubrey Sabala”, I DID dress up as “Aubrey Hepburn” and I DO talk about being “Hungover”, living in “Atlanta” and “Writing a Book.” I AM friends with “Sarah Hatter” and DID mention “Underwater Handstands” (at least I think I did!), and yes, I suppose I DID flash the crowd after my dress fell down from riding the “Mechanical Bull.” Isn’t my life exciting? Can you barely wait to see what’s next?

Yeah. Me neither. And though I hate to break it to you, as hard as you try, as much time you spend searching my archives, you are never, NEVER going to find a picture of “Aubrey Sabala’s Boobs.” (Though I’m flattered, really.)

Rarely a day goes by without someone telling me I should write a book.

They say that they’d love to read it, that it would be hilarious, and ask me why I haven’t done it yet. They compare me to Carrie Bradshaw (aka, Candace Bushnell), which I take as a huge compliment if only that they think I have the funds to wear Manolos. (Which we all know isn’t true…) It’s flattering, really. Coworkers, friends, and family alike seem to be fixated on this question as of late, and I’ve begun to listen.

Why haven’t I written a book yet?

Oh, where to begin… I could state lack of time, which is completely true but not necessarily the real (or whole) reason. I could state lack of topics, which again, has some validity but is not truly preventing me from writing. In honesty, I’m basically petrified. By formally announcing, even to myself, that I am beginning this endeavor, it places loads of stress on my already-stressed-out self, and – let’s be honest, I don’t think I can deal with any failure right now in my precarious state.

What if I fail in living my dream? Where does that leave me?

Oh, I’ve started a book…in my head, on my computer, in my journal, many times. I’m practically overflowing with ideas, and yet haven’t really lassoed them into something tangible. I notice little intracacies of life, the hidden meanings behind actions, the beautiful mundaneness of it all. And I think “that would be a great [trait/character/statement/location/outfit/name] for my book.” I record it mentally, and move on. It’s the ‘moving on’ that needs to stop. One of these days I’m just going to have to do it.

Why not today? Why not tomorrow? Again, I’m nearly paralyzed with fear, afraid to see what comes out when I put my mind to it. All writers want their work to be unique, reputable, inspiring – in essence, theirs. We craft our words meticulously to portray an exact thought, feeling or action, and then sit back and wait. Like letting a child go to college, we toil and shape and work and revise and finally, upon releasing it, sit back and hope we’ve done enough. Hope it’s good enough. Hope we didn’t screw it up.

I’ve heard lately of other Bloggers getting approached by agents, and I’m elated for them. How exciting! And yet a little pang of disappointment arises in my stomach, not too different than that pang you get when you find out your ex is dating someone else – that little twang that makes you feel guilty for even thinking or feeling it and yet you can’t avoid it. It’s the green-eyed monster, and as much as you may adore the person and delight in their happiness, there’s a part of you saying “Why isn’t that me?”

I’m not the type to sit back and let things happen. (Though I wouldn’t mind it if the perfect guy fell into my lap someday soon, but I digress…) I seek my opportunities, look for my chances to excel, and work hard at what I do. I would never solely rely on this website, for example, to launch my writing career. If it happened that way – wonderful. But I’m not depending on it. I know it’s essentially up to me.

And still I put it off, still I spend my evenings and weekends doing other things, other distractions that are allowing me great material for my writing, but not actually promoting my writing itself. “There’s always tomorrow,” I rationalize, as I go to the gym or knit a scarf or watch the OC or drink a pitcher of Foster’s or clean my room. Folly, I know it.

One of these days, they’ll be no more excuses. I think I won’t have any other option but TO write a manuscript, a book, a story of some substance. I’ll be obligated by my own desires, by the words that I’ve been keeping in all this time, waiting for the right moment to release them to the world.

But until that day comes, you’ve got this website, you’ve got me, and I’ve got to get over my fear.

One day soon, I promise.

The letter was innocuous enough.
Friendly, in fact.
It was written with only the best of intentions, with my feelings in mind. I appreciate that.
It shouldn’t have surprised me, shouldn’t have caused that feeling where my stomach drops and I re-read the words in order to make sure that’s what I really read the first time. I shouldn’t care in the least.
This should be inconsequential.
But it’s not.
And that’s what upsets me.

When feelings sneak up on you, catch you off-guard with your defenses down, it’s like a kick in the stomach. We build up walls to protect ourselves from one thing or another, and prepare for situations accordingly. When you know you MAY run into him, MAY end up at the same party or event, you at least feel somewhat prepared, a false sense of control that serves to soothe your nerves just a bit. (At least with a beverage or two…) Yet when it comes out of the blue, it makes you vulnerable. And it’s this very vulnerability that I’ve been closing myself off from, saying I have moved on from, trying to put behind me.

I talk a good game. Just today in a feedback session my coworkers told me that I was “Always up, always positive.” Oh, if they only knew… I struggle with my emotions more than most people are aware of, and though I do try to portray a positive outlook on most occasions, that doesn’t mean I’m not pained, not stressed, not sad. I just choose not to act on it most of the time.

Denial? Perhaps. I know there are many things, many events of the last few years that have changed me, caused me to become more jaded, led me to a present I’m not 100% content with, that I’ve yet to deal with. I’ve said that I’ve got to make sure others are ok, that they get through this, and then I’ll deal with myself. A dangerous game, this emotional Russian Roulette, since you never know when it’s going to all come out. Perhaps it’s about time to deal with me.

I thought I had moved on, that learning this wouldn’t affect me in the least. It shouldn’t, after all, since I’m in a much better place and much happier now than I was 6 months ago. It shouldn’t, after all, because I respect myself too much. It shouldn’t, after all, because he doesn’t deserve it. And the fact that it did affect me, that I’ve been feigning complacence and closure and insignificance, upsets me and shakes my very foundation. After all, if I’m not 100% over this, what else can sneak up on me and expose other hidden vulnerabilities?

I never got closure. I still don’t understand. I went through the hurt, the anger, the acceptance – basically the stages of grief that they (whoever “they” are) say that we go through in a time of loss. I scolded myself for letting him in again, chastised my forgiving nature for being so foolish. If there’s anything I hate, it’s feeling like a fool, and for this I was ashamed. I learned a lot about myself, about others, and the sadness dissipated. It became less and less of an issue and though I never really understood, it didn’t really matter. Why should it?

And yet I know it’s this very issue, the lack of understanding, that is causing these feelings. It still doesn’t matter, doesn’t affect my life in the least, won’t be affecting my future one bit. In all practical, physical senses I have moved on…WAY on. Yet the heart doesn’t play by the rules of the mind, and feelings aren’t predictable.

I like to think that endings are final, that separations are permanent. In this case, it’s easier to believe that once someone is out of my life, at least from my perspective, they are gone. They no longer have a place in my life, in my heart – they don’t DESERVE to any more. You understand the difficulty, however, since I have a website, I vent my feelings in an open forum, I withhold very little, especially when I’m pained or contemplating something. Yet I can’t help feeling bitter – angry, in fact – that they have the opportunity to check up on me, see where I am and what I’m doing, what movies I’ve seen recently and whether I’m dating someone, if they’re not actively in my life. It’s like a surreptitious infiltration of my feelings, and I don’t think it’s fair. Still, it’s unrealistic to think that my desire for a final separation, for the complete removal from any aspect of my life, could happen. It’s out of my control.

There’s always an easy way and a hard way out of a relationship. Let’s be frank – telling the person the real reasons why it’s over is more than a little scary most of the time. So instead of saying that her constant talk about marriage freaks you out to no extent, you say you need space. Instead of saying that you met someone else, you say that distance is too hard. And sometimes, instead of saying anything, you disappear, evaporate, leaving so much unsaid and so much unfinished. It’s the coward’s way out, but I’ve seen it happen to my friends, and have seen it happen to me.

So why do I write about it? Why, if this could be read by the very person who caused this contemplation, do I share that it has affected me? In an open forum I am exposing this very vulnerability that I try to disguise – doesn’t that seem counterintuitive?

I do this for myself. I write for myself. I work through different feelings by writing about them, and while I know I could do it in my journal or in a private letter, I find that the public admittance of my foibles and flaws and thoughts and even my hurts grounds me in a way that I finally know where I am. Right now, I know my presence, whether I’m 100% happy with it or not. In a small, knowingly unrealistic way I am gaining control of a situation that I basically have no control over.

And in a small way, I feel a little better. I begin to listen to logic. Despite a lack of closure, which I may never get, I know that it really doesn’t matter.

Really.

I’m in Chicago.
It’s surprisingly mild.
I have heartburn so bad you’d think my esophageal tract was going to sponaneously combust any second now.
I’m eating Oreos and a Meatball Sub anyway.
I am angry at my Insurance, as $110/month on my 3 medicines is far too much. Hosers.
I just said “hosers.”
That makes me laugh.
I’m still in a quandary.
I’m still wanting to be wooed.
I’m still not able to wear my watch as my wrist is still swollen.
I’m still in love with being in love.
I’m still needing cheap (read: nearly free), creative and touching Christmas gifts for my family members.
I’m turning to you…

I’m poor.
Basically broke, in fact.
And I take full responsibility for it.

I’ve never been that good with money – I have known from a young age that before I get married, my husband and I will have to endure some financial counseling because I’m not that great with the cashola. I don’t know where it started, but money has always burned a hole in my pocket. Nary a day or two would pass after I received the pickle-jar full of quarters and half dollars from my Great-Grandmother that I would find some trinket or token o’ fun to spend it on. And such it began…

As I grew, and in college, I found myself acquiescing to the lure of materialism, where girls would be sporting the newest $108 J. Crew sweaters and $126 jeans that it began to seem almost normal. And even though I worked through college, it was more of the ‘fun spending money’ variety as opposed to requisite sustinence-providing income.

During grad school, I learned about being broke, though for some reason I never really felt like I was lacking anything. Since I was ready to get out of DC, I didn’t go out that often and thus didn’t spend a ton of money. (Also, I lived in the full-fledged ghetto so my rent wasn’t that much.) 1 semester and $10,000 of school loans later, I learned about debt.

From then, it seems to have spiraled into a never-ending pattern of me trying, without avail, to pay off my credit cards. I was able to rationalize a trip home as a much-needed credit card purchase, which began the slippery slope into a much-needed sweater and then a much-needed dinner with friends. Even business travel, most of which is 100% expensable, never seems to be 100% reimbursed on the credit card. For one reason or another, I always am on the short end of the money stick.

I decided to take the matter into my own hands this fall, and got a roommate. Yet I’m a horrific budgeter, and I still manage to bounce my checking account nearly every pay period. Unexpected expenses – $100 airline change fee that was unavoidable, a speeding ticket and requisite traffic school fee, $95 to get my car from being towed, and yet again I find my checkbook hovering near the negative column and my hand hovering near the credit card.

This has got to stop.

I have self-control…I really do. I can go on diets (on occasion), I’ve cut down on my late-night dialing as well as my late-night drinking, I’ve followed my plan to read more and even watch more movies. I feel like the Aubrey Improvement Plan is going quite swimmingly, if I do say so myself. Yet this one issue, my finances, seems to be insurmountable. Bills – from the home phone that I can’t get rid of since I have an alarm system that I can’t get rid of, to an $130 water bill that came out of nowhere – are overwhelming. I’m literally living paycheck to paycheck and turning to my credit cards as a lifesaver for these unexpected bills. And it’s catching up with me.

I’m not writing this to solicit advice – I’m sure all of you could give me different financial tips and tricks that should magically reduce my debt in no time! Though I appreciate your concern, lectures about cutting my spending (I’m trying, I’m really trying…) are only going to sink me into even greater depression. After all, I keep my house at 78 in the summer and 64 in the winter…if I’m sacrificing my base needs of heat and cooling, I’m doing what I can. I am the first to say I make poor choices in WHAT I choose to spend my money on, but like I said, I’m trying. I’m looking for more freelance opportunities, however much sleep I’ll have to sacrifice for them, and may even get yet another roommate as well. Yet when it comes down to it, I’m scared. I guess I just needed to share this, to share that I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to buy my family christmas presents and that Sullivan has needed to go to the vet for months and I haven’t yet taken him.

Basically, I’m trying to do my part, and in the meantime, I hope y’all like knitted goods for Christmas.

Dear Thursday Night,
You bastard. You ruined my Friday.
I hate you, and your $4 pitchers of Foster’s,
-aubs

Dear Friday,
Why, oh why, must you be at the end of the week? If only you came sooner; say, like Tuesday. Ever thought about switching places? It would make the week go so much faster. All of a sudden, Mondays are like Thursdays! Only one day to go until the weekend! What a concept!

Friday, how I long for you each and every day of the work week. How I cannot wait for you to come, even with your increased traffic and moronic drivers who think that by leaving early, they’ll be fixing the situation. I choose to overlook their ridiculousness, since you beckon good times, evenings without curfews and mornings without alarms. You’re a glimmer of hope in my oh-so gray days.

I love your possibility! The opportunity! The feeling that anything is possible. You’re a true motivator, as many of us work just to get to you. We often plan our weeks, and weekends, around all that you offer. Client Meeting? On a Friday? Pooh pooh. We would NEVER ignominize you with something that atrocious.

Friday, if you were a person, I’d make out with you. With gusto. And, trust me, it would be GOOD.

Sometimes, we just can’t contain ourselves, and have to prepare accordingly with a little Thursday night revelry. Please don’t be insulted by our antics; in fact, we are usually just trying to get ready for all that will come the following day. We cherish what you offer, including the occasional late-to-work-dom that happens as a result of these Thursday Pre-parties, and thank you for allowing all Chick-Fil-A Chicken Biscuits consumed during your morning hours to have no calories nor grams of fat. Clearly, you’re looking out for our health, and for that, we thank you.

Friday, you’re revered by both peons & management alike. Golf outings? Afternoon movies? Half-days? Yep, they usually happen with you. You clearly want us to be comfortable on your day, with the de facto attire being of the casual nature. We love the uniform of jeans, khakis, and even those new-fangled slip-on tennis shoes. I bet you had a hand in creating those, Friday.

Whether it’s a late night or an early evening with a movie, a hot date or a warm bath, you are there waiting for us even on the worst of weeks, ready to envelop us with your relief. We long for you. We wait for you. And when you finally come, you’re completely worth it. Thank you.

So Friday, thanks for all that you are, all that you do. And, especially this week, thank you for being tomorrow.

Much love, and can’t wait to see you in a mere 7 1/2 hours,
Aubrey