Footprints

I like solitude most of the time.

There's something quite delicious about being able to call all the shots - where you eat, when you eat. Whether you are going to see a movie at the theatre or in your own living room. Deciding against making the bed or choosing to eradicate sugar from your kitchen.

You choose when you want to go to the beach and when you want to visit a big city.

When you're single - you make all of the decisions, and there's no one to argue back in protest.

But ask any single girl (or guy, for that matter) and they'll quickly point out the murky flipside. There's no one to engage in polite discourse at the dinner table - no one with whom you can share an inside joke. You're without an ally in the social scene and the only arms to wrap around you in bed at night are your own.

Sometimes being single stinks.

My mom tells me I have a great life - and most of the time I'll agree. My calendar is brimming with fun outings and cocktails at some of the area's best restaurants. My circle of friends is full of some solid relationships and continues to grow with each passing month. I am always planning an adventurous trip to a new, far-flung destination.

I guess you could say some people would give anything to be in my shoes. I've got a great job, great family and friends, and a life full of great pursuits. But last night I was only consumed with The Missing Piece.

Him.

I don't know where he is. I don't know if I've already met him, and if I haven't, I don't have a clue where to expect this spectacular meeting.

My Better Half.

Now, I must admit - this is a bad weekend for me. I am battling the emotions that come with fluctuating hormones (ain't it great to be a girl sometimes?) and I'm also struggling with the two month anniversary of Maeve's passing.

Honestly, I'm grateful I found the strength to bathe yesterday.

Unfortunately, the roller coaster of tragic pain and uncontrollable sobbing led me straight to the dark, painful feelings I work so hard to suppress most of the time. As much as I put on the strong face, I struggle with loneliness from time to time. And it hurts.

I hate being the Third Wheel, or the Fifth Wheel. I hate planning vacations alone. I hate cooking for one.

But there's something I hate even more - searching for Mr. Right.

For all my bellyaching and crying about singleness, I threw in the towel many, many months ago, at least where looking was concerned.

I've had a few failed relationships (some I searched for, and some that just happened) and decided I didn't want to look for hurt anymore. These days, when anyone couches an opportunity as "A great chance to meet men," it literally makes me want to run the other way.

My plans fell through last night and I ended up sitting on my couch, drinking Red Stripe and watching old reruns of Law and Order. I was sipping on my beer when a friend sent me a text about a party with that dismal pitch - Let's go meet some boys!

I almost threw up a little bit in my mouth.

I mean, how desperate do I have to be to find someone? I hate the premise of a roving eye at a bar, searching the crowd for the best prospect to approach.

I also hate hate hate the painful reality of putting so much energy (shaving, blow drying-curling-styling the hair, applying make up, painting the toe nails, creating the perfect ensemble) into an almost guaranteed unfulfilling prophesy.

Love has a funny way of developing, and I truly think its best shot is when it's organic - when it just erupts between two hearts truly captivated with passion, possibility and the potential for commitment.

This is the idea I am committed to.

So as long as I have this faith, this stern belief, I must remind myself that I truly do not walk alone on this path of life.

Sometimes, there are two sets of footprints in the sand. And sometimes, there is only one.

That's when I'm being carried.