Seriously, if I wasn’t so secure in my new Joe’s Jeans (and self-mandated singledom) I’d be insulted by Google reminding me that I’m boyfriend-free.

As I’m sure you’ve gathered from my Flickr photos, our group is a social one. (It’s also an incestuous one, but that’s another story for another time, just know that I’ve put a huge embargo on Dating Within The Friend Circle™. JUST SAY NO. Anyway.) Being the socialites that we are, though, we inevitably spend a lot of time away from our respective homes, which is fine when you live in a 500 sq. foot hovel like I do but NOT fine when you live in the aforementioned 500 sq. foot hovel with a menagerie. Because certain members of the menagerie – specifically, the canine member – can express their dissatisfaction with your absence by eating not only the beautiful scarf that your Mom made you for Christmas but also eating the BUTTONS OFF OF YOUR AWESOME HOT PINK PEA COAT AND MAKING HOLES IN THE BACK OF IT. I mean, really, Lila – I can deal with the destruction of my underwear but when we’re discussing outerwear, that’s a whole new (monetary) ballpark. However, this is not what this story is about, despite my annoyance.

This story is about consumption, the type of consumption that happens when you go and enjoy Wednesday $5 wine happy hours and realize that the bartender isn’t SUGGESTING you eat, he’s practically demanding it. (I mean, whatever. Daisy and I aren’t exactly what you’d call quiet normally.)  The consumption that happens when you go out for Indian (YUM) on a Tuesday and nearly lick the plate because you’ve already eaten all the Naan. The type of consumption that happens when you hit La Taqueria prior to TNDC and then as a result of Drinking Uno™ and Drinking Chutes & Ladders™, Mystic Pizza isn’t just a craving, but an absolute requirement.

Which is why, when I stepped on my scale this morning, it was FIVE POUNDS more than it said yesterday. No, that’s not a typo, and before you get all weight-conscious on my apparently expanding ass, I know it’s not smart to weigh yourself every day and that it’s most likely water weight. That said, FIVE pounds? Come on. Granted, the scale registered such a low number yesterday that I even picked up the fattest feline member of the menagerie when I stood on it to make sure it was actually working (it was) but still…waking up to walk Lila at 5am (after sleepily acknowledging her clothing destruction) and groggily stepping on the scale to see that bastardization was almost enough to make me wish on an anxiety attack if only for the lack of appetite that it provides.

So – and please don’t take this as tooting my or ANY horn – I’ve lost about 20 pounds in the past couple of months. This was much-needed as I was heading towards the upper end of my weight range, and while I’d like to say I lost it in a super-healthy, watching-what-I-eat and going-to-the-gym-regularly sort of way, that wasn’t the case. I’m just one of those "under-stress non-eaters" and by non-eaters, I mean I physically couldn’t eat anything except for soup for quite some time, couldn’t keep anything down and couldn’t even taste anything I was eating. Calling this ‘unfun’ is certainly the understatement of the century. Thankfully, some of the stressers that were causing all of this anxiety have abated, leaving me with a slightly lower appetite, but an appetite (hurrah!) nonetheless. However, the problem with this is that when people don’t lose weight in that aforementioned healthy way, they gain it back lickety split and usually gain more. As someone who is really, really enjoying her size 28 Joe’s Jeans, this is a problem. As such, this leaves me with very few options; namely, start working out, start eating healthy (things I should probably be doing anyway), and start drinking less. Um, I honestly can’t think of anything LESS fun than those options, but it’s either that or return to my fatpants. Which I refuse to do.

I refuse this SO much, in fact, that I’m eliminating that option entirely, instead donating anything that is of my "former" size (with just a few exceptions) to charity, leaving me only with things that currently fit and, sadly, leaving me with a pretty empty closet and a pretty unsuitable wardrobe. I mean, I *WISH* I could wear skimpy tank tops and formal dresses every day but alas, this is San Francisco and I get weird looks when I even wear PINK. I mean, REALLY.

People get motivated by different things; some by failure, others by success, but for me, it’s my beloved Joe’s Jeans, the best motivator I’ve had in some time. And really, if they weren’t so scrumptious and flattering I’d acknowledge just how pathetic this really is. But for now, I’m stickin’ with it. And them.

Since college, I’ve had roommates as well as have lived by myself, and there’s something to be said for each. Since Mike moved out about a year and a half ago, I’ve lived alone, which I had done for nearly three years before he moved in. Granted, I lucked out with the best roommate ever since he put up with the menagerie (not to mention me, who often wandered around in a t-shirt and underwear and he was kind enough to be unfazed) so really, it wasn’t that big of an adjustment when I found myself living with another person. Now, at age 29 and almost a half, I’m wondering if it’s time to jump back in the roommate game.

For one, you get a LOT more for your money, and I’m not talking only about rent. Utilities – amazingly cheap in SF (minus cable, of course) are split in two, and if you’re living with a like-minded person, they can even pitch in on groceries (or, since I don’t go that route, we’ll say wine.) Yes, you have to deal with each other’s issues and dishes and ‘morning after walk of shame’ partners (not like I would ever do anything like that, ahem) but you also have someone to commiserate with on a rainy Tuesday night with nothing to do. You’ve got someone else weighing in on your Netflix queue. And maybe even once and a while you’re not the only one on your hands and knees scrubbing these fucking Pergo floors that attract dirt like I attract dirtbags. Seriously, the similarity is uncanny.

Also, there comes a time in every "living alone" person’s life that they start to wonder if they aren’t, in fact, going a little crazy. It could be when they find themselves acting out the quintessential scene found in every chick-flick when they’re singing along with a hairbrush to a bad 80’s tune only to see the homeless man staring in the window at them. Or perhaps it’s when they realize that the mailman thinks they’re secretly harboring a geriatric obese man due to the inheritance of the last resident’s "Big and Tall" catalogs. Or maybe, as it was for me, it’s when they realize they’re carrying on a full, one-sided conversation with the dog asking whether their ass looks good in these jeans that they realize that talking only to the menagerie and NOT another human being leaves something to be desired.

For the record, Lila said I looked hot. And if you can’t trust (wo)man’s best friend, who CAN you trust?

I was shopping online – WINDOW shopping, since I’m attempting to compile a fun, affordable list of cute gifts for the friends and fam before it gets down to crunch time – and in emailing my friend about a few thoughts, Gmail decided to work its magic and suggest an appropriate gift.

Note that I was browsing Red Envelope and suggesting presents for my more oenophilic pals, and somehow that translated my need to fulfill EVERYONE’s needs. Because, really, what’s more appropriate for your Dad than this?

There’s little more frustrating than the inability to anticipate.

Let me explain. I have a friend (and no, this "friend" isn’t a pseudonym for Aubrey O’Neil Sabala; this is an actual friend in an actual Southern city with actual frustrations as you’re about to see) who is thoroughly ensconced in a full-out Un-Relationship. She and the guy are fabulously NotDating™, that undefined gray area where both are very clearly Affected by each other (caps intentional) but won’t make a commitment; or, to that end, even acknowledge to each other that the situation exists. In fact, they’re not even hooking up (anymore) and are what most would consider Just Friends (no reference to that crappy Ryan Reynolds/Amy Smart movie from last year.)  The main frustration – at least, as I see it – isn’t their stagnant status but the inconsistency. On any given day, she doesn’t know what she’s going to get: the affectionate, flirty guy or the somewhat aloof dude who seems to have convinced himself to intentionally withhold the affection that would usually come normally.

Frustrating, no?

My Mom defined this for me back in Middle School (Sue Sabala’s wisdom was the first influencer for the relationship that writer that I’ve become) – she called it "Two Steps Forward, One Step Back" to describe that any time a guy gets out of his comfort zone, he’ll inevitably pull back. I’ve renamed this "The Rubberband Theory" and unfortunately have not only experienced it firsthand, but see it happening to many, many of my friends. And before I get the backlash from all of you guys out there that complain that I’m overgeneralizing and harping on your gender again, I’m sure this happens with girls too; I’ve just seen it mainly in guys from my experience.

Anyway, the Rubberband Theory has only one defense: inaction. As it is with much in life, people have to get places themselves, be it in relationships or otherwise. Just as you can’t lead a horse to water, you can’t lead an unwilling pseudo-partner to finally take one step closer to possible commitment, and putting pressure on them is only going to backfire. It’s not fair, it seems illogical, but the antidote to Rubberband Theory is to be aloof; after all, a Little Aloof goes a Long Way.

Playing games, you say? Quite the contrary. This is just the appropriate response to the situation; inaction (i.e., what they are essentially doing by taking a step backwards) requires inaction on your part, not only because it gives you the perspective to understand what they’re doing, but it also provides you with the opportunity to decide how you feel about that. Without any context of manipulation, you’re essentially taking your OWN step back by not reacting, and (hopefully) are able to judge the situation in its entirety.

That, or make out with his best friend. That’s sure to cause a reaction, though probably not the one you’re looking for.

Your choice.

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Subtle, I’m not, originally uploaded by Aubs.

Aubrey: (talking about sporting a new, darker, streakier haircolor as of late): In the spring I’m going back to superblonde…which should be my superhero name.

Daisy: Yes, superblonde SHOULD be your superhero name.

A: I Know. And I rule the superhero world with my flexibility.

D: I will be superdork.

A: Faster than a prude, blonder than your Mom, SuperBlonde is breaking up fights all over the SF area and lying about her age! It’s a supermodel, no, it’s an actress, no!! It’s SUPERBLONDE!! Give her alcohol and she magically transforms from her boring day job into the procurer of DebauchAubrey!

D: 3 beers before 4pm Aubrey is amusing.

A: I would agree with that. You’ve seen it before, but never sober.

D: True. Very true.

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Bumblebee Lila Belle, originally uploaded by Aubs.

My little bumblebee Lila Belle (whose Halloween present to me was sleeping through the night last night, NOT chasing a cat, and NOT peeing on the floor!) wishes you and all your lil’ punkins a Happy Halloween. I hope you’ve got your costume all picked out and are ready for a LONG night. Our party here at “The Google” starts at 2…

As for me, I think I’m going to be a game of Spin the Bottle. Fun for everyone, no?

Happy Halloween, my friends. Have a great one.

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Why yes, I am., originally uploaded by Aubs.

How they knew I would be coming into the bar is beyond me, but they nailed me to a “T”.

They say there’s some equation that calculates the "acceptable" grieving period after a relationship ends…something like one month for every year you were together. I love that "they", whoever "THEY" are, that nebulous throng of miscreants that determines societal norms, can dictate what we (the opposite of "they", apparently) feel. Anyone besides me feel that this is starting to sound like an episode of "LOST" with "The Others"?

Anyway, that’s well documented. You date 3 years, you break up, and after 90 days you should wake up one day magically over the other person, rejuvinated after some anger and tears and "woe is me"-ness and voila! All is right with the world. Birds chirp around your head Cinderella-style and the sadness in your heart has vanished. YOU ARE MOVING ON.

Except you’re not. That concept is bullshit. I’ve gotten over some people I’ve dated for a LONG time in mere days while others, a relatively short-term relationship, took the same amount of time that we dated for me to finally stop wondering what they were doing when they clearly weren’t with me (nor wanting to be, for that matter.)

To make matters worse, advice runs rampant. My friend has put up a Wiki page to try and compile this; everyone has a different opinion on what you should do. Some people ride the hard line and say you should delete them from your life entirely; after all, they’re not into you even if at one time you were nearly overwhelmed by their affection. Others opt for the "time heals all wounds – and wounds all heels" sort of advice, acknowledging that it does take time. As for me? I fall somewhere in between because I don’t think there is any ONE way to get over someone.

But at some point you will. You will because basically, you just have to, because he’s not moving/you’re not moving/he’s never going to change/you’re not changing either/ he’s not falling back in love with you. That pie-in-the-sky solution that can make things go back to the way they were is NOT HAPPENING and you can’t change it. Because one day, it just gets to be too much, gets to be too tiring and it takes too much effort to continue down the "What if?" path, takes too much effort to just care anymore.

Nothing is ever as good as it was

And what’s good for your soul

Will be bad on your nerves if you reverse it
– Jenny Lewis, Melt Your Heart

Until then, whenever that day comes, it’s not easy. You can’t will it to happen – try as you might – can’t wake up one day and say "Today is the day I am getting over John." Sure, there are things you can do to help that day come sooner – perhaps stop bringing him up in nearly every conversation as a way to remember and validate that there once was an "us", that he once did play a significant role in your life, a way to numb the pain resulting from the fact that those days have passed. You can take down pictures, delete his number from your phone, try to distance yourself from him. You can tell yourself and your friends how much better you are without him – You can wear heels now! You have the whole bed to yourself to stretch out! No more boring conversations about legal jargon you don’t quite understand nor could care less about – wahoo! But, like any habit, it’s hard, it takes an active effort, takes patience and strength for it to finally abate. But that’s just your body, your actions; your heart is on a different trajectory.

We sometimes have a hard time letting ourselves get over something, letting ourselves move on, because of the things that remain unsaid. I’d guess that few breakups actually provide you with the closure you need, at least at the onset, thus leaving you both unsettled and often times wondering ‘why?’ At this point, as much as it sounds harsh and cold and caustic and unfeeling, it doesn’t matter. I know, I know, it DOES matter to you – but it doesn’t matter in the healing process; if anything, it’s hurting you. And at this point, it’s time to be selfish, to just go with the details (IT’S OVER) instead of the reasons why. For all you know, he got The Ick™, he met someone else, he’s still in love with his ex or maybe he realized he’s gay. I’ll say it again: IT DOESN’T MATTER, the end result is the same. IT’S OVER.

I think it all may come down to desire and intention; both yours and his. This can be the biggest barrier because while you SAY you want to be over it, a part of you doesn’t really; it’s your subconscious grasping onto that feeling you had when things were good and continuing to associate it with that person. You may believe – really, truly believe – that you’re ready to move on, but in doing so you have to honestly admit that it is over. DONE. FINISHED. Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200, and do NOT, never ever ever, allow yourself for one second to think that there is any chance of getting back together. Until you can say that with 100% unequivocal confidence, you’re not going to be over the other person. The problem here is that you may – secretly or not so secretly – WANT to be over them because there’s some bizarre part of you that thinks that it could somehow work out. Again, until you’re ready to make this break, you’re not getting over him.

The other person can easily play a role in this as well; for all of us, attention is flattering. And as long as your ex isn’t acting crazy, doing stupid things like trying to make you intentionally jealous by hooking up with all of your friends, it’s still somewhat comforting and flattering to know that they still have feelings for you. If you, as the instigator of the breakup, are really certain you’re over it and positive that you’ve made the right decision, let them go. Let them move onto someone else and you go get your attention elsewhere in good conscience. You may not even know you’re doing it, but when you act the same way – even occasionally – as you did when you were together (and this includes flirting with them while drunk even if THEY are being flirty themselves) you’re sending mixed messages. Stop calling them. No more texts – even snarky mean ones. Birthdays, as hard as it may be, are off limits. Basically, if it’s over, let it be over. Let them go and move on…otherwise, neither of you are truly going anywhere.

So what’s the answer here? I don’t have it. You probably don’t have it. But suffice it to say that it’s not cut and dried, that time does help, that (some) distance does help, that even the old raunchy saying that "the only way to get over someone is to get under someone new" can sometimes help. So until they invent a breakup pill (or "Eternal Sunshine" becomes a reality) hold steady on the course, and join me for happy hour. At the very least, we’ll leave with a good story or two.