Single in the City

I never really had a plan.

Some people can look forward at age 20 and know who they’ll be at 30. They know how many kids they want. They know they’ve wanted to be a doctor since they were eight years old, so that’s what they’ll be. They know they’ll never leave the hometown in which they grew up, and they’ll marry their high school sweetheart.

I wasn’t that girl.

At 20, I had no idea what 30 would look like. I had ideas, but they were vague concepts, not concrete plans. I thought I’d be living in a city. A successful businesswoman. Well-traveled and educated.

I certainly did not think I’d be married and divorced by 30.

Maybe I should have had more of a plan. During my twenties, I held five different full time jobs. I lived in three different states and two different countries. I got engaged young, and, perhaps in hindsight, a little impulsively. I was married by 25, separated by 28, and divorced by 29. I got hurt more than I would have naively thought possible at age 20.

It’s taken awhile – nearly two full years, in fact – to get to the point where I have any interest in dating again. It’s taken me awhile to accept that being divorced is part of who I am, but it’s not all that I am – to be able to talk about it as something that happened, but not as something that defines me. Nearly two full years after I stormed out of my apartment, I’m almost at the point where I’m not embarrassed about it or consider myself “damaged goods.”

Almost.

Without that divorce, I wouldn’t be living where I am, in the greatest city in the world. I wouldn’t have a job that I love more than any I’ve ever had. I may not have accepted myself for not wanting to have children. I may not have made the friends I’ve made, met the people I’ve met, and seen the things I’ve seen. Because, even though the past two years have been the toughest I ever hope to have in my life, they’ve also been pretty amazing.

So here I am now: single and fabulous in New York City, closing in on my 30^th birthday. Trust me, I am not Carrie Bradshaw. Aside from our unruly hair, affinity for high heels, and love of writing, the similarities end there. Life in Manhattan as a 30-year-old woman is not anything like hers. In reality, we deal with high rent, pricey cocktails, dirty subways, and a 5-to-1 ratio of single women to single men.

Those are things I’ll happily deal with though, for the honor of living in the greatest city in the world. I’ll complain, and I’ll struggle, and I’ll gradually become comfortable in my (somewhat) new single skin, but I’ll do it for the love of New York.

Or at least that’s my plan. For now.