Renée Zellweger, It's All Your Fault

Renée, it's all your fault.

Okay, maybe that's not entirely fair.  I mean, I'm sure the hormones helped.  And the pan of brownies I made last night that are now mostly-gone.  And then there was the receiving of yet another wedding invitation in the mail today.  These were probably all contributors, too.

But the fact remains that I have backslid most terribly, and am now wallowing in self-loathing and loneliness, and it all really started when I decided to watch Bridget Jones (I know, I know: that was my first mistake).  So, Renée, I'm holding you accountable.  Because that's better than continuing to eat my chocolatey, fudgy feelings.

So, for those of you playing at home, you may remember that I've recently been undergoing some revelations about my self-worth, and have started an #IAmEnough campaign in my own life.  Mostly it's been great--I've felt better, and people are beginning to notice.  (A recent conversation with a coworker went something like this: 
Coworker: Eden, have you lost weight?  Or cut your hair?
Me: No, I've just stopped giving a fuck.
Coworker: Well, it's working for you.
Hashtag: Success.)

In spite of this general "fuck 'em" attitude, however, tonight the Ghost of Christmases Spent Alone is knocking on the door, and she doesn't seem to be going anywhere.  And I think this is largely due to the fact that I'm beginning to realize that just because I'm happy not being one-half of a couple doesn't mean that society is down with my single girlhood.  The truth is it's hard to be single when 99% of your friends, family, and coworkers are coupled.  It's not that I mind going to dinner parties knowing I'll be the only single person there.  I'll go to the movies by myself, or out to dinner, or even on vacation--no problem.  But damn if that wedding invitation didn't hit home how hard it is out there for a pimp ("pimp" here meaning "single lady with no single gentlemen within a 200 mile radius whom she can ask to be her date to said wedding").  For some reason, weddings seem to have this unspoken rule that showing up stag is not only frowned upon, but makes you a pariah.  So even though I'm over the moon about my friend's impending nuptials, I'm now wondering if I can just stay long enough for the toast and then scoot out before anyone figures out Cinderella went to the ball alone.

And then: cut to me, eating brownies straight out of the pan, and attempting to console myself with Bridget Jones' own story of a single's trials and tribulations.

But here's the problem with that scenario:  no matter how badly Bridget fucks up--never mind the bunny ears and corset at the Tarts and Vicars party that never was, never mind the girdle the size of Utah--she still ends up with Darcy at the end.  And I'm still sitting on my couch in a slightly-dirty t-shirt, ladling chocolate into my mouth.  Goddammit, Bridget....er, I mean, Renée.

And she's not the only one!  Leading ladies in Hollywood, pop culture, and literature have led us all to believe the trope that eventually we'll all end up with Darcy!  Jane Austen, Louisa May Alcott, Nora Ephron, Kate Middleton, Walt Disney's slew of princesses--all of them live the fairy tale eventually, though there may be some girdle-sized hurtles along the way.  And here's where I come down on this:

Those bitches lied.

Not all of us live the fairy tale.  For some of us it's not even that we have ugly stepsisters to overcome.  For some of us, it's just a statistical abnormality and a cruel twist of fate: we move to a state where the male-to-female ratio is 4:3...but we quickly realize that those men are either already coupled up with an impossibly-perfect ski bunny, or we share ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY no common interests (or even grooming habits) with them.

"It's like ten thousand spoons, when all I need is a knife."  It sure is, Alanis.  It sure is.

So what now?  I have no fucking clue.  Online dating is still yielding zero results.  (Those are some other bitches who lied: guaranteed match in 6 months my ass.  Check your algorithms, kids.)  My friends are all coupled, and all their friends are couples.  The all-woman office environment doesn't seem to be changing any time soon.  That leaves me, half a dozen brownies, and a Netflix cache full of chick flicks as my current source of inspiration for--at the very least--solving the wedding-reception-pariah conundrum.  Beyond that?  Well, I can only hope that either David Tennant ditches his perfect wife and moves to Colorado, the scientists in Sweden finally respond to my letters about resurrecting Nora Ephron so she can direct my life, or some sort of 3am miracle happens, Aaron Sorkin-style.

But until one of those things happens, I think I have some Oreos in the pantry, and the second Bridget Jones is on TV.