Dating Myself

Ever since that sweaty, solitary summer in Shelby, NC a few years back, I have been a firm believer in dating myself. That summer I lived essentially alone in a ramshackle apartment in a dry, brown rural town. The purpose of my lonely stay was to complete the final class of my undergraduate career and to serve a mandatory internship sentence in order to graduate a year early. It seemed worth it at the beginning, and probably it was.

But my then boyfriend lived about 500 miles away for the summer, at the end of which he planned to move overseas. My family lived another 500 miles away, in a different direction; the three of us formed something of an equidistant triangle. My conflicting class and internship schedule precluded me from having a real job of any kind, so I was faced with too much downtime, not enough channels, living on credit. I commuted twice a week to Asheville, 70 miles away to work at an "independent weekly paper." They chastised me for bringing a styrofoam cup to work every day. I bought a Nalgene bottle, but I still didn't fit in.

At school it was pretty much the same story. Desperate for casual and friendly interaction, multiple times I found myself in cars or apartments with a motley crew of individuals with whom I had rarely associated before. We cooked each other dinner. We went to the movies. We didn't speak after that summer.

I took a graduate class on the American Short Story, Tuesdays from 6-10. Though I loved the professor and didn't mind the subject matter, I hated the class. Those familiar with this publication may know that I have more than once referred to some of the students in the classes I've taken as divorcées. This comment refers not to their marital status, rather it is a reference to the group dynamic many of my (usually mostly female) classmates project when together. Much like Cameron Crowe's mom in Jerry Maguire, they talk about "finally, finally" getting in touch with their anger. They discuss the competitive nature among and between women, the unfair advantage males have in the workplace, their good-for-nothing husbands and ungrateful children. And, in this case, they didn't seem to like 20-year-old undergrads. I tried to keep to myself and hope that the longer I listened the later it would get, but the class was brutal. One divorcée in particular, Star, aggravated me so much that I told Tara I had considered writing a story about the class. I would title it, I snickered, "Shooting Star."

Why do I describe this ennui? Because it has served to set up the concept of dating oneself. Instead of hitting the vending machine in the basement of the English building during our break, I would bolt to my Nissan and zip to The Pantry-- the smoky convenience store around the corner. There I would scrounge up enough change for The Big Chiller (a 64 oz, 69 cent Diet Coke) and a pack of Wild Berry Skittles. On the way to Asheville, I occasionally did the same. I took myself to dinner, rented movies, bought myself shoes.

I find myself reminiscing because I'm back to my old habits. Working in a dark and drab environment with loads of techies, sometimes I need to help myself get through the day. So Tuesday I wore one of my cutest matching lingerie sets (under my clothes, of course). Wednesday I wore my favorite pants and peep-toe stilettos that rank in my top five. Today I took myself out to lunch (at Subway, but still). And evidently, I am not alone.

On the exodus to work this morning, I followed a man wearing a shirt with blue flames. He carried a transparent bag with his rations for the day, which included not one but two bananas. Maybe this morning he needed a little something extra to get him there. Maybe the flames make him feel confident. And, apparently, he could tell even this morning that it would be a two banana day.

I've been carrying a half-full pack of Wild Berry Skittles around in my purse for a week. I have a feeling they are not long for this world.