The Junior League of Atlanta offers classes for people to “Find Your Niche.” Options include book clubs, Bunko clubs, and apparently the newest fad amongst stay-at-home Moms who have too much time on their hands, scrapbooking. The premise is that you will make better friends, be better Junior League members, if you find yourself enjoying time with like-minded people. While the premise is somewhat cheezy, I can relate to searching for a niche.

I have been writing on this website for three years and four months, to the day. I have written 301 (well, 302 if you count this) articles on this site alone, with countless others on sites like Citysearch or sarahhatter.com (during a guest posting stint) and for two+ years on SheSheMe. That adds up to a LOT OF WRITING, about a LOT of different topics.

In fact, as I was just preparing some of my clips to send out for possible freelance work, I noticed that there are too many to fit in the snazz-matazz folder that I had printed to look all professional-like. Between the restaurant reviews (the best job in the world, one I miss each and every day as I have to PAY FOR MY MEAL like common folk) and the Wednesday Wisdoms and the little articles o’ fun that I have here, it hit me.

I need a niche.

I’ve been meaning to write a book now for, say, 19 years? (Well, if you count “The Teddy Bear Mysteries” that I started in a blank book purchased by my loving parents at my favorite event of the year, the Scholastic Book Fair.) Seriously, though, I’ve been wanting to write a book since college. I’m faced with a quandary of genre…do I write about what I know, about being a twenty-something single gal faced with the harsh reality of dating winners, losers, and gay anorexics (i.e., most of what I have on this site, and what a great title that would be!) or do I write what I know I have in me, a more serious, poignant novel that I’m not quite ready to experience?

I firmly believe that you have to write what you know, and to that end, I’m leaning towards the former. I’ve never had a child. I’ve never had a husband. I’ve never had a lot of those ‘real’ experiences that writers like Anna Quindlen and Alice Sebold and other favorites of mine talk about in such detail, a trait earned by years of living and experiencing and learning. I feel like I would be a fraud if I tried to discuss those things without any first-hand experiences.

Then there’s the option of somewhere in between – Anna Maxted is a good example of this, as she writes lighthearted books that captivate the reader but always have something not-so-flighty about them, a lyrical way to weave the serious with the comic 20-something lit that has finally hit its niche here in the US. (I could extole the virtues of many of the British authors who long ago realized this genre needed something other than John Grisham, supermarket romance novels, or Joan Collins, but I’ll leave that to another post.) Anyway, that “Holly Go Lightly” meets “Felicity” type of book might work for me. At least it’s a thought.

And yet, there’s something that I hadn’t considered until today, another whole genre that I could write about because I DO know about it. Non-fiction, in the Cynthia Rowley & Ilene Rosenzweig “Swell”-esque writing, is right up my proverbial alley. I have TONS of articles already written about “Wediquette” and the like, cheeky little articles that are fun AND functional.

VOILA! I think I’ve found my niche.

Now I only need to find an agent*…

* If you know of any, please, I beg of you, send ’em my way. A niche without an agent is like, well, an Aubrey without a publishing contract.

There’s something wonderful about the beginning of a new romance. It’s like you’re walking on air. The things that usually bother you don’t seem that important when you’re swooning and sighing and mentally planning all the fun times that you’re going to have together. It’s an adrenaline rush, 24/7. That’s that thing about new romance – it has all the potential in the world.

He calls. You swoon. You make romantic moments out of the mundane, and have that knot in your stomach before you see him. Lingerie is purchased, innuendos are spoken, and flirting is at an all-time high. The British call it ‘Early Days’, and I think that’s just about accurate. The only problem is that the very moniker also requires that you have the opposite; namely, “Late Days.” And that’s when the problems begin.

It’s far too easy to take each other for granted. Whereas you used to talk all the time, now a few days can pass without you speaking. You’re not each other’s first thought in the morning, nor the person you call before you go to bed, drunk OR sober. Life has a way of doing this, squeezing in, pushing apart some of that closeness without you realizing it, until one day you realize you haven’t seen each other in what seems like forever, and you’ve gotten used to it.

Welcome to “Late Days.”

Though I’m not a psychologist, I suspect that too many relationships and marriages end in this way, with people putting others (both people and things) before their partners. They relate to someone, or something, new and due to convenience or closeness or even proximity, the place which was once held by your beloved is now being held by another. If it’s to work out, there needs to be the acknowledgement of this situation and strides to fix it, to return to what it once was. To return to the “Early Days.”

In my life, I’ve only seen a handful of couples, at various ages and stages in their lives, who have that spark after being together for some time. Sad, I know, but I look to them when I get disconcerted about this or that, knowing that the couple didn’t get there standing idly by; instead, they worked at it. Every. Single. Day. They probably disagreed and argued and got upset and yet, at the end of the day, at the end of the many weeks and months and years, they knew that what they had was special and that very bond wasn’t to be disrespected. And so that ‘spark’ remained, because they not only showed each other that respect, they also had it for the union of their relationship or marriage.

Though I’ve had my share of “Early Days” and a few too many “Late Days”, I recently dated someone who still caused me to have that knot in my stomach, that fantastic surge of excitement every time I saw him, even six months later. And no matter what the future may bring, between us or between others, I know that feeling, and won’t settle for anything less. I want my “Early Days” to last.

Driving into work this morning at the ungodly hour that we now have to be here, I was listening to one of the sub-par radio stations that we have as choices here in “currently not so hot”-lanta, and they were interviewing the host of “The Amazing Race”, and the upcoming “No Opportunity Wasted”, Phil Keoghan. He’s created this new show, a result of a near-death experience he had when he was 19, after which he got a new ‘zest’ for life, and actually made a list of things he wanted to do before he died. He calls this his “List for Life”, and has had to revise it a few times since he keeps completing the items within, including breaking a world record for bungee jumping & diving the world’s largest underwater cave. Basically, he lives each day as if was his last.

Cliche-factor aside, that actually inspired me, making me wonder what would be on my list. Nothing nearly as dangerous, I don’t suspect, but the first few things that came to me include:

• Running a marathon
• Learn to Scuba Dive
• Get my black belt in karate
• Write a book, and have it published
• Be on The Today Show, not just as a person in the crowd, but as a guest
• Act in a television or movie
• Fall in Love, get married, have children, and all the trials & tribulations that go with it
• Own a beach home with a big porch

I’m sure I could continue the list, and I probably will, but wondered: what would be on YOUR “List for Life?”

The dating and relationship business is a profitable one. Just think how much money Greg Behrendt & Liz Tuccillo have made on their book alone, since it’s sold out nationwide! Multiply that by the thousands of books, tapes, CD’s and even television shows that deal with this issue and I’d suggest that it’s second only to the dieting industry in terms of revenue. Truly, this nation, this world, is obsessed with finding true love.

That’s not to say it’s not valuable; I know that I, for one, am just as enamored with the idea of love as the next person. (And I assure you, the next person is probably my roommate, my office mate, or my best friend.) Love is universal, and we are relentless in its discovery and pursuit, though you’d think that all of these books and advice would actually get us somewhere. You’d THINK.

When it comes down to it, I say it’s not that confusing. Really, it isn’t.

A few weeks back, I realized that despite my rants and raves and suggestions and epiphanies, it’s a lot simpler than even I thought. I was at a dear friend’s wedding, and after a long few days of imbibing, I found myself in the company of a delightful young lad who we’ll call “VT” to preserve his anonymity. (Not that he would need it, given his ebullient nature, but I’m considerate like that.) Anyway, the wedding was extravagant, fantastic, the perfect weekend full of breakfasts and brunches and lunches and dinners and dances, and at each event there was a common theme: alcohol.

Now, we know how I get when there’s some imbibing to be done…I liken myself to a whirlwind on speed. I’m even more talkative, animated, and oftentimes ridiculous than normal, which we know is seemingly impossible. And I’m also more bold – anyone who’s been graced by one of my drunk dials can attest to this. So as I’m enjoying VT’s company, dancing and talking and generally being drunken fools, I kept saying to him, “You adore me. I know you do! Tell me you adore me!” Thankfully, he was as many sheets to the wind as I was, and though I’m sure he found this somewhat annoying, he had the good graces that only a true Southerner does and didn’t run in the other direction. Granted, I knew full well how silly I was being, but at the time, I must have felt the need to be adored.

Which is when it hit me. That’s what I want, what we ALL want. Flowers are nice, candy is appreciated, but when it comes down to it, we need your thoughtfulness, your consideration, your devotion more than anything else. We not only want, but we need the unexpected phone calls, the surprises that aren’t monetary, but are just kind in their very nature. Save your money, gentleman, and spend a Saturday going with us to a wedding that you don’t want to go to instead of the typical football-watching afternoon with the guys. Actions speak a lot louder than words, and while we DO like to be told that we’re adored, what we really want, at the end of the day, is to know it, unequivocally.

Can’t get much simpler than that.

She’s infinitely successful, and I’m a semi-struggling writer.
She’s older, whereas I’m young…ish.
She’s one of the richest women in the world, and I’m playing russian roulette with my bank account. So really, what do Oprah and I have in common?

THIS BOOK.

After writing my article last week about Greg Behrendt & Liz Tuccillo’s new book, “He’s Just Not That Into You”, I’ve gotten many an email and even a few calls about the theories within. My Mom went so far to say that I should have written the book myself (and after realizing that it has sold out in every store in Atlanta, how I wish that was true.) The next day, Oprah had the authors on the show, and I got to witness firsthand (via Tivo, of course) the harsh reality that us women apparently need…in droves. As I listened to the women relate their tales of love gone awry (or at least lust gone unrequited), it was obvious what Greg Behrendt would say in response. To each and every one, to each and every sordid tale, he replied with the same answer:

“He’s just not that into you.”

A bit much, right? To honestly believe that any of these situations that were quite different in scope and premise could elicit the same answer, well, it’s statistically unlikely at best.

Or is it?

Yes, the stories were different. Some were about a brief encounter; others, 4+ years of dating seriously. And through them all was woven a common, cliched thread: the women were making excuses for not being treated the way that they wanted to be.

Oh, I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve lived this, and if you’re a woman in her mid-20’s like myself, my guess is that you have as well. Like I said in my last post, us women are so supportive of each other that even faced with the all-too-obvious facts that despite her optimism and desires, the relationship really isn’t going anywhere, we make excuses. We say he’s “emotionally retarded.” We cite distance. We lament the truth but explain it away, an attempt to make ourselves feel better when, in actuality, we’re sad, because we wanted this one to work out. This generation of fairy tale endings and happily ever afters still wishes for the prince but settles on the frog. Why, with education and intelligence and beauty and general fabulousness that so many of us exude, do we make excuses for what, in essence, is just poor and unsatisfactory behavior?

Because we’re scared. We’re protective of ourselves, of our friends. We have our hopes and our dreams, and yet continue to find ourselves settling for so much less when in actuality we should be demanding more. We’d save so much time and energy if we eliminated the second-guessing and self-doubt that plague so many of us and trust that if he really liked us, we would know it because he would show it. I firmly believe that we often don’t “see” the truth because we just don’t want to, and dismiss our doubts instead of facing the facts. If only we could realize that not being well suited for each other doesn’t make us unsuitable, we’d change these behaviors. We’d realize that though he seems our ‘type’ or might be our ‘one’ (if you believe in such a concept,) he, too, has a type and, face it – you may not be it. It’s not his fault, he’s not trying to hurt you, he’s just not that into you. So move on.

Easier said than done, I know. I’m still anxious to read this book (when it gets re-stocked, that is) but in the meantime. I think Greg & Liz have nailed a key dating gripe on the proverbial head. Because really, it’s not you, it’s him – and he’s just not that into you.

We girls can spend what seems like hours talking about “timing”, “fate”, “distance”, either reasons or perhaps excuses that help numb the pain that another failed relationship produced. Our girlfriends are our best support network, telling each other that there are more fish in the sea, quoting clichés cum placations over a bottle of red, giving advice that we rarely take ourselves. We quote our mothers, our happily married friends, anyone who seems to know something that we don’t given our current situations. We suggest waiting until Thursday to return a certain suitor’s call (or at least that was my hard-assed advice last night), wondering ourselves if distance really does make the heart grow fonder. And despite the colloquialisms, the time-tested suggestions, the “easier said than done” advice, I return to two opinions that, if adhering to the principle of Occam’s Razor, are most likely the truth.

A recent column in the Washington Post opened my eyes to the new book by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. While I haven’t yet read it, the premise is clear – we girls tend to over-analyze our way out of heartbreak when, in actuality, he’s probably just not that into you. Harsh, yet realistic advice in today’s world of Friendship PC Style, the unwritten rule of girlhood that mandates nothing but the “It’s not you, it’s HIM” statements, true or not. While I don’t advocate the belief that guys are the only ones who can call, I also have seen too many of my friends get (and, let’s be honest here, have at times myself gotten) a bit too enamored with someone without merit, and have held on way too long to the belief that there could be some excuse as to why his interest waned. In actuality, it was probably the combination of a myriad of reasons, all encapsulated to result in the fact that, sadly, he’s really not that into you.

This goes hand-in-hand with one of my Mom’s most astute pieces of wisdom, that “people tell you who they really are, and it’s up to you to listen.” I’ve found this out the hard way, with a few one-sided relationships full of actionless promises and eventual disappointment. We girls are great at hearing what we want to. He says that you can date others, and we hear “I don’t want to date anyone but you, and am just a good guy and want you to be happy.” He doesn’t say he loves you, misses you, is thinking about you. We hear “Aww, I know he feels these things, it’s just a shame he can’t express them.” Though actions do speak louder than words, the absence of these statements doesn’t replace the words entirely. If he isn’t calling, isn’t treating you the way you want, is giving half-assed efforts with an occasional apology, you need to listen. You need to hear him, he just told you (somehow in the combination of words and actions) who he was, and if it doesn’t match what you want – move on.

It’s not going to stop,
‘Til you wise up.

I need your help.

Yes, you. Yes, you who is reading this, who reads this site now and again or who just came here for the first time ever today.

I. NEED. YOUR. HELP.

(But read on, there’s something in it for you, too.)

Here’s the deal – my beloved company is having a Ghoul-gly Halloween Party, and while I love this holiday (as evidenced by my yearly Hallo-Wienie Roast Bash), I’m in a quandary. I have NO idea what I can dress up as.

In the past, I’ve been:

• a flapper
• Marilyn Monroe, complete with white dress
• Audrey Hepburn (or actually, Aubrey Hepburn)
• a Kissing Booth
• the Walk of Shame
• a Care Bear (ok, I was in 2nd grade.)

Anyhoo, I can’t exactly be any of those again, due to either a) semi-nudity or b) impropriety (somehow I doubt my manager would go appreciate the subtle humor of my kissing booth costume.) So here I am, a month-ish out (which I’m sure you think is a ton of time to come up with something, but I’m Type-A, so let me go with it), and costumeless.

That’s where YOU come in.

YOU (collective, in the “Vosotros” sense, of course) have a LOT more (collective) knowledge of quirky, fun, creative halloween costumes than I do. You’ve seen things that are hilarious, unique, ingenious, and now I need you to share them with me. Either leave a comment below or send me an email with your ideas. The only request is that it’s somewhat creative or unique (and office-worthy, though a little raunchiness is always appreciated!) Can’t think of anything? Pass this on to your sister. Your friend. Your husband. Honestly, I’d be forever grateful.

Now to that “what you get out of it” part. The winning idea will win a FABULOUS prize of Googly-ness amazingness – trust me, it will surprise & delight. Fo’ shizzle.

So please, please, I’m at your mercy – help a sistah out, and FIND ME A HALLOWEEN COSTUME IDEA.

The song plays in the background, a soulful melody evoking feelings I had thought were laid dormant for good. It creates a stirring in my stomach, in my soul, making me long for something I don’t have, something I’m not sure I ever really did have. Something I desperately want.

Dwelling on the words, on the concepts, makes me melancholy. The sky outside is a light gray, a foreshadowing of the storm slated to arrive in the next few hours. I sit, entranced, listening to the song over and over again. I tend to do this, to find a song whose words speak to the very core of my being and play it again and again until I become immersed in it. It’s where I turn when I’m confused, where I turn when I just don’t know what exactly it is that I’m supposed to be doing or thinking or feeling.

Love. The songs are all about it, the aching and the longing and the wanting and the wishing. And they sell. And they’re played. And they’re written about and spoken about, these once-private feelings of the songwriter made public by some desire to share his soul with another, with many others. They’re commercialized, yes, but at some point, when pen went to paper, they were immediate and real and authentic. And that’s why I dwell on them. The core of the words, of the song, speaks to me, speaks to that authentic part of myself that I don’t often let people see, the part of me that I never question.

Or maybe it’s a lost cause.

I should know better than this.

It’s my own fault.

WHY did I do it? WHY did I say it?

WHY did I say that I had an ‘easy week’?

Damnit, damnit, damnit. You’d think I’d know better by now, what with my workload, my tendency to fill up my days with activities with the same furvor I use to empty my bank account. All of a sudden, my ‘easy week’ is now full of freelancing, last minute work requests, more freelancing and the desire to just lay in my bed and do nothing. Which doesn’t mesh very well, you see, my longing for laziness and the fact that I can be anything but.

When it rains it pours. Just like how when you get one date, you get four, when you have one freelancing article, you all of a sudden get six, and an entire magazine to edit, to boot. Not that I’m not excited – I desperately need the cashola, and haven’t really put a lot of emphasis on my ‘real’ writing as of late. So it’s a good thing, of course, a really good thing. It keeps my mind off the things that keep me up at night, the thoughts I’m trying to get out of my head that creep into my dreams and leave me restless, but it also adds a bit of anxiety to this already over-anxietied gal.

No more complaining. I’ll get through it, minus a bit of sleep, I’m sure, but honestly, I can’t wait. A regular column or two…well, that’s been on my to-do list for a few years now. And finally, it’s all coming together. So if you’re in the Atlanta area on September 25th, be sure to pick up “The Sunday Paper” and flip to the style section. I’ve got ya covered.

I’m ready for it to be second-nature, for me to have to remind myself that I feel this way. I’m tired of it being on the front of my mind, being the thing I think about when I’m trying not to think about anything. I think that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, it won’t be so omnipresent, won’t be the elephant in the room, won’t be the thing that I think about that I’m just so tired of thinking about.

I’ve never been a patient person; that’s pretty obvious. I’m a bit flighty in a responsible way, but despite my impetuousness there’s a loyalty about me that I just can’t shake. It’s that loyalty that makes me try and be irresponsible, a fly-by-night sort of person, but grounds me at the end and keeps me from succeeding.

Time heals all wounds, they say, but sometimes it takes too long. Sometimes you want it to be six months from now, to fast forward the meantime to get to where you may be, wanting to read the proverbial last page in the book just to make sure that it turns out all right. To know what will happen, to assure yourself that you’re doing the right things, feeling the right way.

But of course you can’t, and it all remains with me like a silent companion until that day, maybe soon, maybe not, when it will all make sense in the resolution.