Two

Two

SORA

This year, I want bacon to be my valentine. I’d rather have a heart attack than a broken heart.

—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE

The first day of Solo February dawns dreary and frigid, with six inches of new wet snow on our already salt-laden streets, a typical welcome to February for Chicago. After a bone-dry, extra-mild, above-freezing Christmas, we get a weather-outside-is-frightful delight on February first. Mother Nature loves to procrastinate more than I do.

I snuggle deeper into the warmth of my “office” duvet, as I sneak a look at the first published article of Solo February. The article already has a few likes, so I let out a sigh of relief. The trolls haven’t yet crucified me, so that’s a good sign.

I finish the second article of the series, and even take a stab at the third. I’m going for self-empowerment, but I have niggling doubts I might be coming off as bitter and sad.

The whole point of Solo February is to find fulfillment in your life unconnected to sex, love, or another person. And I’ll be frank, I have no idea what this looks like. While I never consciously meant to, my whole adult life, I’ve measured my own personal success by who’s in my bed.

And if you look at my exes, you can see my bar was very low.

Actually, my bar was on the ground.

No, strike that. I actually had to dig into the ground, then put my bar in the hole. We’re talking below-sea-level low. Someone would have to build a subway tunnel to get under my bar, so is it no wonder that any jerk who wandered into my life just stepped right on over my buried bar?

I can’t trust myself to date anymore. I can’t trust that I know who’s good for me or who’s bad. It’s about time I stretched my wings. Hell, it’s about time I used them at all.

I finish typing and read over the last line. At the foot of my bed, Larry lifts his head and whines. I realize he needs to go out. I pull myself out of bed to fetch Larry’s leash and stuff my feet into the stained shearling-lined boots I’ve had for more than a decade. Together, we head out to face the brutal Chicago February. Larry bumps against the doorframe. Not once, but twice, before I gently steer him away from it, and down the winding staircase to the first floor of my four-story walk-up.

Outside, winter slaps me in the face, hard, and I feel the wind instantly sucked out of my lungs. It’s literally too cold to breathe properly, as my lungs work to process the frigid February air. Thankfully, Larry’s tree is all but ten feet from my front door, which really is Larry’s genius. It’s not his first Chicago winter, either. As he pads around the small square of gray, icy sludge at the base of the leafless tree, I burrow myself deeper into my down-lined coat, glancing up and down Montrose Avenue.

I live in one of those vintage condo buildings, complete with gargoyles hanging off the roof and a single gray stone castle turret on the east corner, sealing the building’s medieval vibe. It was built in 1890, though, by a Chicago meatpacking baron, whose dream included living in a replica castle. It’s since been gutted and remodeled and converted to condos. It’s close to the Lincoln Square brown line stop, and a dozen bars and restaurants. In one direction lies some of the best Italian or Thai food in town, and in the other, there’s tapas, upscale American, and so many other options there’s no reason ever to turn my own oven on.

As I’m turning to go back inside, I see a brown delivery truck pull up and double park. The logo on the truck is obscured by a three-inch layer of salt from the icy roads. Poor guy, I think as he hops out of the truck so bundled that he can hardly move. He carries a big box that seems unwieldy and heads to my condo building.

The delivery guy swings around and almost swats me in the face with the giant box. “No. 2-E.”

Shit. That’s my downstairs neighbor, Pam. She hates me, fine, but it’s the fact she’s picked a beef with my dog that I really can’t stand. She claims his breed is “vicious” and has been leading a campaign to have him ousted from the building. Actually, she really wants to ban all dogs from the building. As president of the condo board, she brings it to a vote every meeting. So far, she’s only really gotten everyone to agree no new dogs will be allowed. Larry, the only remaining dog in the building, is grandfathered in.

As a sidenote about Pam, she’s obsessed with marathons and triathlons and all the other lons, at least since she broke up with her longtime live-in boyfriend, Thom, in the spring. We should’ve bonded over being two newly single ladies, but see: her hating my dog. And, let’s get real, the only triathlon I’m ever doing will be eat-nap-watch TV, or snack-chill-laze around. I should’ve known the package was hers, because now I see that health-food logo on it, one of those super pricey, super healthy, super gross-tasting smoothie services called Green Gleam, except that it probably should more aptly be named Colon Blast. I mean, good for her for putting the work in and all that, but there’s no way I’m going to use a blender to make my dinner, unless it’s frozen margarita night.

He eyes me suspiciously, as if I’m trying to steal the box from him. Why would I commit porch piracy in front of my dog? That’s just bad parenting. A frigid blast of arctic air blows across the sidewalk, freezing us in our tracks, and the delivery man decides possible theft is better than frostbite.

I take it, considering whether or not to leave it outside on the stairs, but then reconsider because, while my neighborhood is pretty safe, there probably is a black market for Green Poop boxes. And Pam might hate me and my dog, but I’m still going to try to be a good neighbor. If I paid out the nose for special organic kale smoothie ingredients, I wouldn’t want them stolen. It’s just common courtesy. I head inside, fingers tingling because carrying the box to the stoop meant that I could not shove my bare hands deep in my pockets, and the thirty seconds of exposure turned my fingertips numb. I haul the box up the two flights and leave it at Pam’s door. I’d knock, but my knuckles are frozen, and besides, Larry does freak her out. She explicitly told me to avoid direct contact with her when Larry is with me.

And anyway, Larry is dragging me up the stairs because he knows it’s treat time when we get back to the condo. Once inside our warm apartment, Larry waits expectantly in the kitchen near his cabinet, big pink tongue lolling out. I reach into the cupboard with my numb fingers, but soon discover we’re out of Larry’s favorite treats. Ack! I’m a bad dog mom.

I glance at Larry’s expectant face. There are only a couple of reasons I’d leave my condo again on a day like this: for Larry or a fire.

A frigid two-block walk later, I’m wheeling my shopping cart through my local upscale grocery, Margo’s. The commercial love machine has thrown up on everything. Valentine’s decorations jump out at me from everywhere. I see one store employee busy stocking up the aisle in front of me with oversized pink teddy bears, sappy cards, bottles of warm champagne, and chocolate truffles. Seems like just yesterday this same seasonal aisle was filled with broken Christmas ornaments at 75 percent off. Please bring those back, I pray to the holiday marketing gods. I promise I’ll buy the Minions-as-reindeer driving a sleigh full of the Avengers. Anything but all these stupid hearts.

Then I remember I don’t need to care about Valentine’s Day this year. Since I’ve taken the #GoSolo vow, I won’t be expecting chocolates. Or flowers. Or having to lie to anyone who asks about having plans. Wow, there is really something empowering about that. I decide because this is the Month of Me, I might as well focus on something more uplifting: the refrigerated breakfast foods aisle. Sausage, eggs, and, of course, the true love of my life—bacon. I glance at the bright yellow sign at the shelf’s edge beneath the maple-flavored, extra-thick strips: buy one, get one. My heart soars and ticks up a notch. Who says I’m not lovable? Bacon loves me. Bacon never lies to me. I don’t have to guess whether or not he’s bad for me. I know he is. Do I buy one or two packages? Hmmmm. I hedge. Six it is. I mean, it’s non-GMO, organic bacon, after all. It would be unhealthy not to consume a pack a day. Bonus: it’s carb-free.

I dump all the packages from the row into my cart, ignoring the judgmental stare from the size-zero strawberry blonde wearing head-to-toe Lululemon as she side-eyes my outfit. I’m wearing a faded Turkey Trot sweatshirt that’s probably older than she is and has most of the lettering rubbed off, so it simply says k … r … ot 5k. The woman’s nose wrinkles in disgust as she takes in my appearance. Ah, Lululemon, I was once bright-eyed and naïve just like you. Merely a few months ago, I, too, wore makeup to the supermarket, and lingered near the organic produce. I had hoped I could be one of those rare stories among my friends of someone who actually found their mate in the wild. Oh no, I didn’t meet the love of my life on some dating app at all. We met when we both reached for the very last ripened mango. So quaint.

I glance down and see she’s piled nonfat, plain Greek yogurt, kale, chia seeds, granola, and non-GMO frozen quinoa in her mini cart. Lululemon eyes my cart. The bacon has joined my bottle of tequila and six pints of salted caramel ice cream and, of course, treats for Larry. Her carefully lined lip turns downward in a disapproving frown. She reminds me a little too much of my downstairs neighbor Pam, who often wears the same look when she’s eyeing my overstretched yoga pants. I realize she is not Pam, and it’s not fair to lump her in the same dog-hater category, but she’s the one doing the aggressive staring, not me.

I meet her gaze, and in that instant, a silent conversation passes between us.

You’re single because you don’t try hard enough, her eyes tell me.

You’re trying too hard and your future boyfriend will still sext an Instagram model, my eyes clap back.

Then we look away, catfight over, because she knows damn well my size-fourteen midriff could belly bounce her into the next aisle, if I wasn’t so afraid of prison food. So, she saunters off, flicking her high ponytail, to find organic, unsweetened kefir, and I focus on figuring out where they’ve stashed the pizza rolls in this joint. Because … to hell with my diet. I’d been starving myself hoping to impress Dan, and look what happened. I went hungry only to find out that the whole time I thought I’d been playing the lead role in his heart, I had been the understudy.

I turn the corner, hoping to head down the frozen food aisle (pizza rolls await!), but stop in my tracks when I see Lululemon lingering near the frozen spinach. Damn! I do not want to face the stiff breeze from Lululemon’s thigh gap again. No pizza rolls then, I decide, as I turn my cart. Before I’m finished, I hear a clatter and turn to see an elderly Latinx woman desperately trying to reach the top shelf for butter, but her stooped back and curled arthritic fingers mean she swipes at the brick of butter, but it slips from her stiff grip and bounces to the floor. Lululemon shoots her a frown, her disapproval of anyone over the age of forty existing clear on her face.

I abandon my cart and head to the elderly woman’s side. She looks flustered. “Dios mio,” she laments.

I stoop to get the butter and she sends me a look of flat-out relief. I’m sure neither her knees nor her back were looking forward to the sacrifice demanded to bend to the floor.

See? I’m a freakin’ nice person. To everyone except Lululemon. She maneuvers her cart quickly away from us as if aging is contagious.

I don’t know that word as it’s beyond what I remember from my two years of Spanish, and my brief study-abroad stint in Barcelona. But I see the woman nod toward a small table near the bakery. She must mean “samples.” Leave it to the senior on a fixed income to find the free food. They’re better than a metal detector on Daytona Beach after spring break. I glance over, and see it’s manned by a sexy lumberjack in an apron over a red plaid flannel shirt. His sleeves are rolled up his thickly muscled forearms. He’s sporting an impressive beardstache, surrounded by a week’s worth of stubble, which somehow suits him. He looks like a rough-around-the-edges-but-with-a-heart-of-gold gigolo. His ethnicity seems hard to place, but I’d love to play eight rounds of “Who do you think my grandma is?” with him. He looks like he ought to be a butcher, elbow deep in spareribs, but instead, he’s piping frosting on delicate little raspberry tortes. The way he’s gentle with the buttercream blooms images of how soft those big, strong hands might be on delicate parts of my own anatomy. There’s nothing that gets me in the mood faster than sugar and a gentle touch.

Solo February, I remind myself, and then I almost burst out laughing, because there’s no way this stunning example of perfect manhood would ever in a million years be interested in k-r-ot sweatshirt–wearing me. Not to mention, he might not even be interested in women at all.

As I’m walking up to the big-shouldered man who seems equal parts sexy former professional athlete and Cake Boss, I notice his brown wavy hair is stuffed beneath a white baker’s cap, and it still doesn’t in any way make him look ridiculous. He looks like he’s burst life-size from a package of Brawny paper towels—manly, strong, and a good listener, eager to counsel a 1960s housewife on her marital troubles. In fact, he’s surrounded by a decent crowd of people, all eager to taste his wares. He carefully doles out small desserts, one by one, and I take my place in line.

He hands the elderly woman a mini torte and she thanks him with a nod and then moves on. He glances up at me and I see the biggest, brownest, most puppy doggiest eyes of all time. Damn, he has nice eyes. Playful. Smart. Sexy. Eyes always get me. Forget butts and chests and six-pack abs—give me a good set of irises, and I’m done for. And then it comes, the crooked half smile and dimple, the way a male model might smile at himself in the mirror in a razor commercial. Hell, yes. You smile, honey. You are the best a man can get.

When I pull up my cart next to his table, he says, “Oh, hi,” in a tone that seems to imply what he really means: Oh, hi, you’ve got a fine ass even in those stained sweatpants. Why don’t you bring that unwashed body over here and we can really get dirty? But I’m probably imagining it.

I’d already forgotten my Good Samaritan works in the butter aisle. “Oh, that? It’s nothing.” If you like that, I’ll carry her on my shoulders through the store. Then she can reach anything she wants, and she won’t have to worry about her bad knees.

I shrug. “It’s my superpower,” I say. “That and making bacon disappear.”

He glances at my cart and laughs a little. We both share extended eye contact. Then it suddenly hits me. Is this my … meet-cute? Have I fallen into an adorable rom-com? Even though I’m wearing stained yoga pants with a hole at the knee and my all-natural, aluminum-free deodorant gave out hours ago? Could it possibly be?

But then someone approaches my left flank.

It is.

My ex-husband, Marley.