If you’re a blogger who gets her clicks writing about the joys of single life, then gets into a relationship, do us all a favor: don’t start writing about how “broken” the “Cool Girls” are. Your graduation from Tinder swipes to Sunday morning cuddles doesn’t make the rest of us choosing to fly solo “broken.”
I spent this weekend doing my best interpretation of stuntin’ for the ‘Gram.
Friday evening, C and I finally fulfilled a big Cleveland summer bucket list item: find friends with a boat to cruise Lake Erie the Cuyahoga River. We’ve done the happy hour tour on the Goodtime III, but crave the private boat experience every time we hit the beach. A work event at a yacht club brought us to our destiny and it was every bit as stuntastic as we imagined it would be. Especially riding back to the yacht club at the end of the night, listening to “Big Pimpin'” while watching the downtown Cleveland lights sparkle against the water.
Saturday, after nursing a “Wait, I didn’t know cider did THAT” hangover, we met up at Edgewater Beach, where we spent a gray afternoon talking shit over homemade spiked popsicles. I took lots of swimsuit thirst trappy Instagram photos, which I hadn’t done in awhile. Thanks to a seven-month onslaught of hormonal acne and a softening midsection, I’ve been less than my cocky self, but the bitch was back in full force on Saturday.
Sunday, I finessed my way into my apartment complex’s pool to get brown and read The Witching Hour by Anne Rice. Despite a spirited group of pre-teen girls who didn’t understand why I’d put on a bathing suit if I wasn’t getting in the water (TO GET BROWN AND BE HALF NAKED ON INSTAGRAM. DUH!), it was a pleasant afternoon and I came in just-shy of Kelly Rowland-brown.
So yeah. This weekend was shorter on culture than my normal “get out of the house” outings. It’s summer–what’s the point of being a single, childless adult if not to brazenly enjoy my freedoms?
Many societal trends annoy me nowadays. Among them is our rejection of the ugly, the dark, and the messy aspects of life. I suspect this is a result of needing to identify with everything we consume. We like things packaged into perfect “goals,” “moods,” and “aesthetics” that tell the world …
It’s been brewing for a couple of days; a tingling beneath my skin longing to be touched. Today, it is a fever. So lost in thoughts of tangled limbs and rumpled bed sheets that I can barely see straight. As I type, I remind myself to breathe to hide how wound up I am. And I am SO wound up.
This weekend’s outing: a walk through the Waterloo Arts District. One of those hipster artsy areas in the middle of an urban neighborhood: specifically the Collinwood area. Where I attended high school. Having grown up ripping and running these streets, it’s odd to see them as “hip,” but the neighborhood has long been on my exploration bucket list.
I wasn’t in the mood to do a lot of socializing, but I did walk up and down the streets taking photos
like a weirdo. The area is heavy on murals, which is perfect for wandering around outside.
We French are not as fiendish about finding shortcuts as Americans are. Perhaps that is why we are no longer a great power, but the trade-off is we are not fat.
– Mireille Guiliano, French Women Don’t Get Fat.