So That Happened

written from a small apartment in Minneapolis, MN on October 22, 2024

I dropped a whole jar of pickles today. Luckily, the glass didn’t break. “So that happened,” I said to no one other than myself. 

Just last week, I drove an hour in rush hour traffic to attend a church small group. I sat in my car and watched girls in baggy sweatshirts walk in with Bibles tucked under their arms. I envied them. Not because of their baggy sweatshirts, but because they traveled in comfortable flocks. I grew to despise them without even getting out of my car. I called my friend, please convince me to go inside. I was asking her to do the impossible.

So that happened, I guess. So what happened? Everything and nothing. I met a boy at the bar the other night. Yes, the bar. He was fun and sweet and made me laugh and didn’t break eye contact. It was like the movies. The next morning, I looked at my phone, half-hoping for a text. Well, full-hoping. I found him on Instagram and the truth sank like an anchor, grounding me in disappointment. He was almost a decade older than me. 

Most people would shrug it off, oh well. Better luck next time. But not me. I now wrestle with the question of age and if it really matters, collecting data from my friends and coworkers. I text him back. 

When I ask my friend at dinner whether or not I should give up on dating, she looks worried. She turns to her husband, “What do you think, Nich?” Nich thinks I should focus on me, and stop trying to force things to happen. I agree with him, but sometimes I don’t want to focus on me. 

Focusing on me means keeping my apartment clean, doing my laundry, writing instead of scrolling, reading instead of looking back at old photographs to make me even more sad, soaking in the bathtub, singing and dancing with my dog in the kitchen, cooking, baking, and spending more money on groceries to make healthier meals. Focusing on me means no longer fixating on the idea of someone to share this stage of my life with. Now that I think about it, I don’t even know if I want to share this stage of my life with anyone. Quite frankly, I want this stage of my life to skip to the next one as soon as possible. 

I applied for a consulting job this morning by accident. Which means I applied for a consulting job this morning when I was in the midst of a quarter-life crisis over the thought of being a barista forever. A lady from the consulting firm called me this afternoon, wanting to go over my resume. I asked if she could explain what the job entailed, even though I had just applied for it three hours ago. She spelled it all out for me. “So would that be of interest to you?” She asked. “Probably not,” I replied. She stumbled over her words as the call quickly came to an end. 

Right now, clothes are in every corner of my small one-bedroom apartment and dishes are piling in the sink and groceries are half unpacked and tip money from the cafe is scattered across my dining room table. I wonder when the day will come that I sit with someone at a restaurant or brewery or cafe, sharing about the year I spent in Minnesota. I wonder if I will be proud to talk about it, or if I will quickly summarize with vague details before casting my gaze to the side, embarrassed. So that happened.