So, you spend your twenties “discovering who you are;” carving out your “identity.” If you are of a particular millennial breed, perhaps you even create a “personal brand” around said identity, tailoring it, perfecting it like Michelangelo’s David or a clay bowl in one of those Color Me Mine pottery places that Charlotte York was eager to join. Perhaps you move to Paris to take that self-discovery process to the next level, and you start a dating blog. A few years later, you write a book loosely based on that blog. You analyze yourself into a stupor. By the time your early thirties roll around, you are convinced that you did it. You. Know. Who. You. Are. (Somebody who loves “adventures,” hates party brunches, needs quiet mornings and five hours of alone time a day.) You are defined. You are finite. 

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I always knew I wanted children. Unlike everything else in my life – partners, professions, even countries – I never bothered to question it, assuming that, at some point in my adult existence, I would move into this daunting yet (allegedly) fulfilling world of self-cloning.    

And yet, time went on. As one year rolled into another, a different kind of adult existence set in. It was one shaped by singlehood, the kind when you are alone for so long that it becomes your comfort zone; the kind where you set your own terms and live purely for you – gluttonously, frivolously, without any extra cares or responsibilities. The more time passed, (and the more independence and opportunities I accumulated), the more fun it became: the impromptu trips, the month-long “research” sojourns in Paris, the long mornings spent drinking coffee and writing my heart out. Life in a bubble with me at its center. 

When I finally did move in with my boyfriend at the age of 33, after only six months of dating, it was great, but it also came with a sacrifice I hadn’t been prepared for. Suddenly, the routines I had carefully cultivated over the years were crudely cut short, interrupted by breakfast-making sessions and blasting news and household chores I had never needed to deal with. (Fact #1: men produce debris merely by existing.) I could feel myself losing not only my focus but also my creativity, as though my newfound happiness had plugged this fountain from which good words and ideas emerge. (Or, perhaps, said words and ideas had always been generated by solitude– a chicken or the egg scenario, so to speak.)  Read More

Dear 2.5 readers who keep coming back after nearly a year of my abstinence from this blog, thank you for your unfailing loyalty. While I’m sure you give very few [BLEEPS] as to why I was absent, the explanation actually doubles as my lead-in into this paramount piece. And so, here it goes.

At first, I was Busy. A real, goal-driven kind of Busy, the kind that deters you from leaving your desk all summer, quietly observing all of Instagram using the Mediterranean as their own personal hammam while you and your Havianas slowly meld into the scorching city cement. The kind of Busy that forces you to cut out all social interaction with people who have no interest in feeding you (Busy leaves no room for pride) or breaking booze with you (Busy leaves no room for wellness). Anyway, I was Busy.

Then, I met somebody. I want to tell you that I abstained from blogging because I didn’t want to jinx my blossoming romance, but that would be a lie. The reality is, I was a-still Busy and b-too preoccupied trying to get him to like me via various acts of chivalry, such as watching his dog while he went to New Orleans for one day to party. We are still together, and I no longer watch his dog on weekends while he parties, because he is no longer allowed to party or do anything remotely fun without me. (JK, I’m super chill. SUPER. CHILL.) Also, if you meet him, he will probably tell you that I’m being dramatic and he was just “taking it slow.” Don’t listen!

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