Wait. So does this mean you’re going to stay single?

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When Diane Farr (my heartbreak hero extraordinaire) declared her Year of Self, she set specific parameters for her experience:

“So I made my promise to myself that I would not date for a whole year. I needed to move away from marriage and kids defining everything.”

She then inevitably ended up meeting her husband during that year, developed her booming career, had beautiful babies, and publicly (but very humorously) villainized her douchebag, womanizing ex-fiancée on Queen Oprah’s show.

Since declaring 2015 as my own Year of Self, I’ve been asked many times if this means I will also be staying single.

I’m not sure yet? What I do know is that defining the Year of Self as simply a year of being single would be a terrible oversimplification of what it is I want to achieve.

That being said, my focus right now is definitely not on romantic relationships, and I don’t believe that I could legitimately be a good partner to someone in my hot-mess present state. Let’s be serious, my Tinder profile would be all like:

“Merlot-drinking, ramen-eating, T-Swizzle loving, emotionally-unstable cutie with a booty, looking for her lumber sexual dream man. Douchebags need not apply. Holler!”

I think what is most important for me right now is to loosen the reigns on attempting to control and plan every little detail in my life. So no, I won’t actively be pursuing romantic relationships. (Please note: This last sentence will be deemed null and void if Chris Evans ever shows up at my door.) I’m just going to roll with it (Me-Mantra #3!) and see where this year takes me!

As American actor, screenwriter, director, producer, activist and musician Tim Robbins once said:

“Stay committed to your decisions, but stay flexible in your approach.”

Current Status: steamrolling through The Mindy Project (thanks, @aleksawal) / committed to not “swiping right” / in desperate need of a manicure

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Realization #4 – I must embark on a “Year of Self”

It has been exactly 25 days since Mr. B killed the dream.

During this time, I have eaten my weight in ramen, possibly exhausted Canada’s supply of imported merlot, watched 10 seasons of Friends and listened to more Kelly Clarkson than I care to admit to.

I am happy to report I am officially a functioning human being once more. Despite the rocky beginnings and some inopportune setbacks, I have traded in my sweatpants for my favourite pair of skinny jeans, resumed regular grooming practices and *gasp* am even smiling and laughing again.

As I hinted to in previous posts, I have decided to dedicate 2015 to my Year of Self.

What is a Year of Self, you ask? In its simplest form, it’s a year wholly devoted to my pursuit of happiness. I am determined to turn this mind-numbingly painful experience into something positive; I refuse to let Mr. B’s douchebaggery have any permanent effect in my life. I need to look back on this as the start of something so much bigger than our trivial relationship.

It took me awhile to figure out how I wanted to approach and organize this endeavor (hence the delay in an update). During my brainstorming sessions, I had the opportunity to visit my bestie, Miss. E, in Ottawa over the weekend. After countless hours spent cooped up in a cozy Starbucks (I shit you not, it was -35 °C outside), we finally came up with a two-part game plan:

Me-Mantras
Ten principles I will drill into my head and live by for the next 365 days. Some are vague; others may seem silly. They all mean something to me. They’ve all been carefully crafted to address the main issues in my life. Click here to read them.

 2015 Bucket List
Self explanatory. Most of these aren’t huge things (with the exception of sky diving!), but they are all things I have been putting off for years; always pushing them into the future. I have bolded some of the recurring items and will be updating my progress as I go. Click here to take a look.

Since this has turned into a long rambling post — and I personally hate long rambling posts — I will leave you with these final words of wisdom:

Bitch, be cool. Do you. This is life. Keep figuring it out.

Realization #3 – There is no path to happiness. Happiness is the path.

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When Mr. B arrived, all that was on my mind were the lazy Sunday mornings we would inevitably spend in a quaint European village, in our modest but cozy home with the door I would insist on painting red.

The memories we had not yet made, were the ones that kept me hooked.

In reality, Mr. B raised his eyebrow every time I put ketchup on my eggs (I have a very refined palate, I know) and furrowed his brow at the numbers of times I brush my teeth during the day (how is impeccable oral hygiene annoying?!). These are just two examples out of the countless red flags I painstakingly extracted from my recollection of Mr. B’s commentaries on my everyday habits.

These may seem like inconsequential observations on his part, but they weren’t. His comments were not relayed in a “you’re so goofy and endearing so let’s ride off into the sunset” kind of way. Mr. B made me feel insecure.

I was feeding off the dream. Moving to Europe. Travelling the world. White dresses. Bright-eyed, gap-toothed kids. Matching tombstones. The whole deal. My seemingly monotonous job and existence no longer mattered, because I was hanging on every word.

I let this man swoop into my life, and found myself redefining my existence and future plans. I wholly believed that once we were together, I could finally be happy.

It took me 27 years to figure out that you can’t put your happiness into someone else’s hands. Especially if you have horrible taste in men.

Current Status: cautiously optimistic / jamming to T-Swizzle / finished all Friends seasons (what do I watch now?! Suggestions welcome!)

Realization #2 – I’m scared of being alone.

There. I said it. I am a grown-ass, 27-year-old woman who is scared of being alone. Something I truly didn’t realize until Mr. B skipped into (and subsequently out of) my life.

For the past decade, I have methodically steamrolled from one relationship into the next.

Oh, shit ain’t working with Mr. Right Now? That’s cool, Mr. Coming Right Up is looking pretty good…

Yes, I am that girl. I was that girl. Every time I ended a relationship, I already had the next eligible bachelor lined up. I’ve never actually dealt with the feelings associated with a breakup.

I suppose you could say my method for getting over someone, was getting under someone else (sorry, Mom!).

This is the first time in a decade there is no tall, dark and handsome distraction waiting for me; the first time in a decade where I refuse to resort to this destructive (albeit very comforting) pattern.

I need to make a real change in my life and behaviour. I refuse to drag another unsuspecting human being into this angsty, Mr. B-hating, wine-chugging, ramen-noodle eating phase of my existence. I am not in any shape to: a) attract the right guy; and b) be a good partner to anyone.

So here I am, raising my glass of merlot, to being alone! (Someone please take me out of my misery if I ever order a Snuggie!)

Current Status: listening to Single Ladies / googling micro pigs in rainboots / loading up on ramen

Time-out: A pity party is a shitty party.

I’m taking a quick time-out today from boldly declaring the second of my three major realizations and from brazenly setting forth into my new life as an independent, bad-ass bitch (sorry, Diane Farr).

To sum up: Today was shit. Works sucks. I’m out of wine.

I’m hyper sensitive and every-day situations are stressing me out. I am cognizant of the fact that it is not normal to get teared up over the Starbucks barista spelling my name wrong on my coffee cup (#whitegirlfirstworldproblems), or my stapler running out of staples (why does nothing ever last?!).

Before you begin shaking your head, please don’t get me wrong. The general trend is up.

I haven’t actually “ugly cried” since Friday. There have been no urges to text, call or change my mind about Mr. B. He is, and will always remain a complete and utter douchebag. Thank you Mr. B, for at least leaving no wiggle room in my mind about this fact.

What I do know, is that though the general trend is up, it’s not a perfectly smooth line.

Today caught me off guard. I came home and crawled right into my bed, forcing my dog to begrudgingly be my little spoon.

Alas, tomorrow is a new day. I will put my big-girl pants on again, avoid eye contact with the Starbucks barista and try and refrain from throwing my stapler at the wall.

Wish me luck!

Realization #1 – Diane Farr is a bad-ass bitch.

I’m a compulsive researcher. Whenever faced with a dilemma, I turn to Google to impart its infinite wisdom onto me:

How do I get over my douchebag ex-boyfriend? How many calories in a tub of Ben and Jerry’s? When will my ovaries start shriveling up? WHEN, GOOGLE? WHEN!?

Just kidding. Sort of. (P.S. Chunky Monkey = 1,200 calories.)

As I perused the internet on Friday night, after establishing that I would not be out getting white-girl wasted and mingling with all the fine single men of Toronto, I stumbled across this gem:


Please watch my new heartbreak hero, Diane Farr. All I ask if for to watch it to the 1:50 mark, so you can get to this part:

Single. Picked the wrong guy. Gave him the wrong finger.

Um, how amazing is she?

This is when I realized, not even a charismatic, beautiful, famous actress can escape the reality that sometimes you’re just going to get your heart smashed to pieces if you put it out there.

I have two choices: I can go on being a bitter bitch, or I can begin my journey to becoming an independent, bad-ass bitch.

Because to be quite honest, I haven’t actually been single for more than a few days in over a decade. Which brings me to my next realization… (Stay tuned for Part 2!)

Getting Over Mr. B…

I woke up yesterday morning feeling relieved.

Relieved that Mr. B was not beside me, and that I would not be the one driving him to the airport that afternoon. Relieved I would not be the girl he was leaving behind, to pine after him for the unforeseeable future as he kept me at arm’s length. Relieved that he was no longer mine.

This may seem like a big leap from the scorned, wine-chugging, internet shaming ex-girlfriend version of myself you have been acquainted with thus far, but I had three major realizations that got me here…I’ll split them up into my next few posts.

Current Status: considerably less morose / finally eating / still watching Friends

Post-Breakup One Week Mark: Back to the 9-5 grind.

I was lucky enough to have had some time booked off over the holidays. Well, on second thought, it may be too soon to use the term lucky without wanting to punch someone.

The original intention was to spend my time off having the time of my life with my incredibly thoughtful and loving boyfriend. Instead, as the story goes, I found myself laying in a fetal position at my parents’ house with only the company of my black, black heart and a rapidly-growing mountain of snotty kleenex.

Either way, I believed these extra few days off would allow me enough time to compose myself like the bad ass bitch I knew I could surely be, before returning – no scratch that – strutting, back into the real world. Instead, I was greeted by:

“How were your holidays? Was your boyfriend’s visit amazing? Why are you back early?”

I was in the bathroom stall by 9:30, hoping I remembered to put on waterproof mascara. (I didn’t.)

See, in my pre-getting-my-ass-dumped-by-a-major-douchebag existence, I was a very efficient and organized human being. I figured I could knock this whole process out of the way by the weekend, and spend my Friday night getting white-girl wasted and all like, “Mr. B, who? Single and ready to mingle!”.

Sitting in that bathroom stall, I realized that all the blog ranting, lamenting to my newly acquired group of WordPress therapists (in addition to my real-life pity squad), bottles of merlot and self-help books in the world weren’t going to expedite my grief process. Time takes time.

I’m not an idiot. I know I’ll eventually be okay. Just not today.

Current Status: curled up on couch / not out getting white-girl wasted / wishing Chris Evans was my baby daddy

One step forward, three steps back…

I shouldn’t have rejoiced so quickly and proclaimed myself healed over the grey-sock realization.

Coming home to spend the night in my empty apartment has been harder than I imagined. I was feeling better in my childhood home; it served as an escape from reality.

I am so goddamn angry and sad all at once, and keep reaching for my phone to message Mr. B. I stop myself every time. There is nothing he can say that can change what he did. He ruined it.

Reaching out to him at this point for further clarification on how I just didn’t quite measure up in his books will just leave me back on my bathroom floor.

Because the truth is, there are moments I miss Mr. B so much I can’t breathe.

Asshole.

Breakup realization: The tale of the grey socks.

“And suddenly you know. It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”

Last night I ventured back to my empty condo to pick up a few things so I can continue hiding out at my parents’ house for one more day. I dreaded this visit. Though Mr. B was not a full-time occupant of my humble abode, I had severe anxiety about finding traces of him poisoning my once peaceful sanctuary.

I unlocked the door and tentatively stepped in; breathing out a sigh of relief. It still felt like my home. It still brought me comfort to breathe in the old familiar smell.

I zipped around packing up the items I needed, when I came across a pile of laundry I had left on the dining room table (Note to future self: Invest in laundry basket). As I sifted through, I realized in horror that Mr. B’s clean socks were staring back at me. I suddenly remembered that I had offered to do Mr. B’s laundry during his stay.

I furiously picked out the offending items and shoved them off the table onto the floor:

image(13)They landed in a “B” (TELL ME YOU SEE IT?!). Even Mr. B’s goddamn socks were obnoxious. I slumped down in the chair and began sobbing for the billionth time.

Then a funny thing happened. I realized all of Mr. B’s socks were grey. My sobs slowly turned to laughter. Loud laughter. Uncontrollable laughter interrupted only by sporadic snorts. (Get in line, boys! This classy girl is single now.)

Why did the sight of the greys socks make me laugh, you ask? In the months leading up to our demise, Mr. B had started frequently commenting and complaining that I wear too much black and grey (they compliment my skin tone, dammit!). What started off as something Mr. B considered a cute quirk when we first met, slowly became something he was annoyed by:

Why do you always wear black yoga pants? Why don’t you try wearing a red dress? Are all your sweaters grey?

What I didn’t realize at the time was that these comments signified the beginning of a shift in Mr. B’s attitude and feelings towards me. It was the beginning of the end. I was no longer a bright and shiny new conquest; he knew he had me. He was bored.

What Mr. B didn’t appreciate  or care to notice  about me, is that I always wear brightly coloured socks. Hello Kitty socks. Polka dotted socks. Neon socks. Argyle socks. And they never match (ain’t nobody got time for that!).

Mr. B had his head too far up his own ass to love my colourfully adorned feet.

I want someone in my life who loves me for my monotone wardrobe; not despite it. Someone who takes the time to appreciate my ever-growing, mismatched sock collection.

This may be a far stretch for some as an “a-ha” moment. This may not even make sense to some of you. But realizing that underneath it all, Mr. B was just another guy wearing boring grey socks, marked the official turning point of my journey.

Current Status: eggs in my belly / cautiously optimistic / spooning my dog