Earlier today, the little, black, floating dot that I always see out of my left eye while I’m staring at Westlaw was driving me insane. Which led to some impromptu research on WebMD. There I discovered that I’m most likely suffering from the early stages of a detached retina.
So I of course spent the next hour on Facebook taking full advantage of what little eyesight I have left.
At first, Facebook didn’t deliver anything special. No wedding photos from anyone interesting. Some new baby pictures. A guy who dumped me two years ago posing for some immensely cheesy pics with his new girlfriend who looks like she walked out of a Glamour Shot at the mall, circa 1992. Whatevs.
Then, I remembered that I had been meaning to block an old friend’s status updates from appearing on my wall.
She’s one of the embarrassing single types whose self-consciously boastful postings bespeak the delusion that there’s a single guy eagerly awaiting her CONSTANT status updates. And he finds her charming and irresistible. I personally get this uneasy, awkward sensation every time I see her stupid updates and the revolving parade of photos she posts of herself. In them, she always looks ugly but clearly thinks she looks hot. It’s the same nauseous feeling I got while watching the footage of Kate Gosselin being a pouty bitch during her Dancing With The Stars rehearsals.
(Speaking of which, I didn’t know whether to be jealous of Erin Andrews’ performance last night or to make fun of her. I had no idea she was so leggy and arm-y—nor that she had such gigantic breasts. I’ve also never seen anyone wear fabric that matches my preferred shade of highlighter yellow.)
But when I started clicking around, I discovered altogether horrific news. The aforesaid old, not-hot-but-thinks-she-is friend has apparently just gotten ENGAGED.
Trust me when I say that over the last two years I’ve gotten very adept at rationalizing away the waves of near-suicidal, panic-tinged jealousy that arise each time a friend surprises me by waving a brand new engagement ring in my face. I’ve even learned that my troubling disquietude ultimately fades over time, no doubt helped along by whispered assurances from the voices in my head. Things that make sense.
“She is a lot less neurotic than you. And has a better body.”
“Well, in hindsight, her approach to ending up engaged by 25 was more sensible than yours. She stayed with her college boyfriend instead of cheating on him with a bunch of weird guys that she waited tables with at Maggiano’s.”
But now I’m faced with a novel dilemma. One for which I am entirely unprepared. On some level, I guess I knew this day would inevitably arrive. But not so soon.
I’ve advanced to the next level of spinster-hood. To an altogether new circle of hell.
It’s where people more socially awkward than me are settling down with their soul mates. Where even those I had presumed to be romantically untouchable have more of a right than me to DVR Say Yes to the Dress.
When I was a junior in high school, I made a pact with my friend Eli Seidner that we would marry one another if we were both unattached at the age of 30. At the time, we both suspected the deal was unenforceable. Mainly, I think, because we had reached the agreement after eating mushrooms. Subsequent events rendered it even more ridiculous. Namely, Eli is now gay and living in some sort of all-male sex commune in Belgium.
Which I suppose really only leaves me with two options—both of which pose respective difficulties. I could swallow my pride, squelch my insecurities, and resolve my inferiority complexes. (In other words, I could learn to deal with Carson’s more irritating qualities.) Settling down with Carson wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, I suppose.
And if that fails, I could always start studying for the New York Bar. Because I’ve learned an incredibly important lesson from The Real Housewives of New York City: Deadlines for women are all pushed back in Manhattan. Bethenny Frankel just moved in with a guy for the first time and is pregnant with her first baby, and I think she’s almost as old as my mom.
Mazel tov, Bethenny. You might just be my final source of hope.