If I knew then...

Wisdom: wis·dom (noun) 1. The ability to discern or judge what is true, right, or lasting; insight. 2. Common sense; good judgement. 3. 1986 movie starring formerly engaged couple Emilio Estevez and Demi Moore. Unable to find work after a past felony, graduate John Wisdom and his girlfriend embark on a cross-country bank-robbing spree in order to aid American farmers.

Let's concentrate on the first two definitions. Though I bet Emilio's looking pretty good these days, huh, Demi? A while back, my favourite magazine published an article about the wisdom of women. With the benefit of hindsight, they asked, what would those who were now older and wiser tell women in their 20s? "Leggings will never, ever, be pants" comes leaping to mind, but here are a few more things my marginally wiser self would tell the 20 something me:

1) Heartbreak is not an actual medical condition. You'll get over it. You'll even kiss somebody else who makes your knees buckle and your ovaries sit up straight. Sure, you'll still stop dead in your tracks if you see HIM and perform evasive manoeuvres that may involve ducking behind a plant/ the cheese counter / an aisle full of Bic pens and Liquid Paper (for instance). But it'll make a good story later that afternoon. Or once you've stopped crying and sobered up. So take comfort in your Häagen-Dazs/giant bag of Wavy Lays/family-size Kit Kat Bar. It's temporary. And do they need to call it "family" size? I might never have a family what with all the time I wasted because of that bastard. Might want to rethink your marketing, Nestlé. Off topic, Häagen-Dazs is on half-price special this week (so only about $8.25) at my grocery store. I'm considering re-reading some old emails just so I can work up some emotional distress and thus justify a pint of Vanilla Swiss Almond making me its bitch. By the way, I'm a little sad that Facebook stalking has replaced a good old-fashioned heartbreak late-night drive-by of his house. I'm old school like that.

2) You'll probably never look as good as you do in your 20s. Sure, there are the exceptions, the late bloomers, who go from gawky to gorgeous. But the smooth skin, the fairly flat tummy, the ability to survive on 3 hours of sleep and nothing but nachos and beer for 3 days straight - ENJOY IT NOW. How much time did I waste trying to lose 5 pounds and agonizing when I didn't? If I still had the body I had then, I'd go grocery shopping in a bathing suit. I could be wrong, but I seriously doubt my bra will ever again by brought to me by the letter B. The skin is still holding up, though. I'd like to thank genetics, Retin-A and the blood of virgins.

3) For the love of Ban Ki-Moon, don't be an idiot. If you don't know who that is, skip to number four, Miss Teen South Carolina. I was lucky; my job and my upbringing dictated that I always knew what was going on in the world, even when I was chronologically predisposed to think the world revolved around me. You don't need to be able to explain the entire history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but please be able to identify a few world leaders in addition to every former star of "The Bachelor". No one likes an idiot. Well, I don't. And people like me, maybe your boss, definitely your co-workers, will judge you. Be informed, be aware. I love pop culture, but there's a whole universe beyond Perez Hilton. And no, Darfur isn't some guy on Drake's new disc.

4) It's okay to just date. This is the one I really had trouble with. Still do, but for different reasons. I wish I'd dated just for the sake of dating, and flirting, and figuring out what I wanted, instead of it always having to mean something bigger. But I grew up on John Hughes movies, back when "hooking up" still meant getting together, meeting some place, hanging out, and you only dated one person at a time who, after a prescribed number of dates, became your boyfriend. Who you then went with to see John Hughes movies. I think it would have been fun to try, although I suspect I wouldn't have been very good at it. What can I say? I'm a relationship girl in a holla back world.

5) No one has to know EVERYTHING about you. Not your mom. Not even your best friends. And especially not your co-workers. You will regret it. Especially when they're still bringing up your ex-boyfriend 5 years later. Besides, if someone knows every little thing about you, chances are much higher that you could be kidnapped and held in an abandoned warehouse by a bunch of bad guys while your arch nemesis assumes your identity. Granted, this is more of an issue if you're a spy, but still, something to think about. And fyi - my arch nemesis is the allegedly much-beloved fictional character Anne of Green Gables. Next Kick a Ginger day, I'm coming for you, little girl.

6) Tell the people you love you love them. Often. I'm thinking your family and friends more so than the guy you've had two dates with. Or worse, the guy you thought you were maybe getting back together with so you slept with him, only he was a bit distracted during your proclamation because he had a date in a few hours.

I'm sure there are dozens more ways I could've used my own advice back then. I would have been emotionally healthier, happier, and enjoying my pretty flat tummy. There are also a few things the 20 something me could have shared in return: Bono will still be sexy, there's no such thing as comfortable high heels, and you will never, ever look good in yellow.


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Party of one

Editor's note: (I've always wanted to say that, even though I don't have an editor. Unless you count Tallulah, who likes to sit on the desk batting pens onto the floor and demanding I scratch her head. I wonder if Anna Wintour is this demanding?) I originally wrote parts of this a few years ago for another project. A few things have changed (the latitude and longitude of my ass, my unconditional love for George Clooney), but much of it still holds true.

"Why are you single?"

I’ve been asked that question more than a few times over the years. It used to make me bristle, seeming so judgy about my worthiness as a girlfriend. Now, I don’t mind it so much. Why the hell am I single?

My answer has always been that I’m better off alone. I know a few men who'd agree, and it's always seemed an easier answer than “guys don’t ask me out”. Which is true, but sounds a little pathetic. I’ve never been the girl guys approach, unless it’s to find out if my friend is single. Or to see if I'd like to switch cell phone plans. But I no longer know if I am better off as a solo act. I've cultivated this “I’m a single girl, you coupled-up suckers” image, when really I’d like to be in love. Not in a creepy, "I already have a wedding dress in my closet" way, but in a "reason to shave my legs every single day" way. I’d like to have a side of the bed instead of the middle. And I'd like to take advantage of the large pizza offers I get in my mailbox without having to justify the leftovers. Or eating an entire large pizza in one sitting.

The thing is, I think I make an excellent girlfriend. I’m not too clingy; I like having time to myself. It sometimes borders on the anti-social, truthfully, which kind of makes me wonder if the Unabomber and I would hit it off. I’m not a princess; I don’t expect a man to provide for me. I expect a man to get the lids off jars. I’m thoughtful, I give great gifts, I'm pretty open minded around the bedroom. I’m cute, possibly even attractive, when well-rested, moisturized and properly hydrated. I worry that baby's got a little too much back, but I've honestly never come close to hearing the words "you know what I really like? A bony ass". Besides, I've spent a fair bit of time at Home Depot lately (decorating as a subsitute for sex), and dimmers are surprisingly easy to install.

So what’s the problem? For starters, I'm gun shy. The reasons for this are maudlin and tragic and worthy of their own post. For now, suffice it to say that commitment phobes, cheaters, players and the emotionally comatose are kinda my thing. When it comes to accumulating tools, I'm second only to Bob Vila. Really, when I think about it, I'm sure only geography and divine intervention have kept me from waking up next to John Mayer by now. Mostly though, I don’t meet anyone. Admittedly, I don't give off "single and looking" vibes, likely because I just can't stomach all the first date nonsense where I'm supposed to dumb it down and make inane small talk and act like he's the funniest person ever and just So Damn Fascinating. No one is that fascinating when they're nervous and wondering if their deodorant has betrayed them and if that big word they just used to try and impress was actually the word they meant to use. Certainly not me. Besides, you try twirling your hair coyly when it's two inches long.

Friends ask “Wouldn’t you like to be in a relationship?” That’s like asking “Wouldn’t you like to win the Best Original Screenplay Oscar?” Sure, except I’ve never even read a screenplay, let alone written one. I'm pretty sure you have to at least make the attempt. Which reminds me - I’d love to think the screenplay of my romantic future would be akin to "Amelie"; peppered with cute outfits and well-travelled gnomes. Seems optimistic, given the screenplay of my romantic past can best be described as "He's Just Not That Into You" meets "Amityville Horror", only without the dead flies.

Sometimes, I wish I could date just for the sake of dating, but I’m not cut out for it. I think I'm too sensitive. I admire women who blithely say there are always more fish in the sea. I’m more like Santiago when it comes to dating. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and that, thus far, has been my downfall. Sometimes, I wish I’d spent more time going sleeveless. But then I remember I hate my upper arms.

I’ve had my heart broken a few times (does it count as once or twice if it's by the same guy?), maimed a time or two, manhandled occasionally. And when I was younger, that made me incredibly skittish. Now, I think it makes me a charter member of a not-very exclusive club. But I’m older, hopefully wiser, and don’t have the wide-eyed expectations that plague the 20 something crowd. I’m not likely to jump in with both feet, but life’s too short to not at least stick your toes in. Besides, I have incredibly cute toes. I just feel like I’m wasting a great time in my life.

I don't want the impossible. I want someone with humour and integrity, style and substance. Unless style for you means Ed Hardy. An artistic side (though if your band is just waiting for their one big break, perhaps not). And really broad shoulders. Someone who's curious about the world. I’d like to be having more regular sex. Or slightly irregular, if that’s your thing. And I’d like to not have only two choices when opening wine - down the hatch or down the drain. But mostly, I’d like someone to lean on. Metaphorically; I'm somewhat renowned for my anti-spooning stance.

Don’t get me wrong - I really like my life. I have a job I really enjoy most days, a not too overbearing family, a great house, and cooking skills that extend beyond finding a take-out menu. I have fantastic, funny, brilliant friends who would slay a dragon for me, should we find ourselves in an Arthurian legend. And they think I’m the cat’s pajamas. So if quality people think I’m quality people, why am I single, while many completely vapid women need to fend ‘em off with a stick? Is vapid the new sexy? Actually, never mind. I think Jersey Shore just answered that question. I've had a few guys tell me, years later, they didn’t realize what a catch I was. Is it too much to ask for someone to figure that out in the present tense?

By the way, for the broad-shouldered, single men between 36-45 who got the Hemingway reference, marry me.

Closet case

Just to be contrary, decided to buck the trend and go back into the closet last night. Or, rather, into the back of the closet. Fall showed up right on schedule, and I haven't seen my favourite sweater since April. I'm a bit fickle, so what I love today I may loathe next week. This applies to many things, but we'll limit the scope to the sartorial for now. Some of my fashion ambivalence I blame on my mixed feelings about my ass. We may have discussed this before. I have pretty awesome boobs; I'm like a particularly pneumatic Venus di Milo. But, like, with arms. My thighs, however, tend more toward the Venus of Willendorf. Luckily, none of me has the fashion sense of Venus Williams. That being said, there are some things that simply stand the test of time, thighs be damned.

My pink satin, cherry blossom embroidered, kimono style jacket. From the time I saw "Notting Hill", and Julia Roberts was wearing an Asian-inspired jacket and jeans in the dinner party scene, I wanted one. I'd like to think I was not influenced by my now shameful crush on her movie paramour Hugh Grant. I bought this in Chinatown in New York. It had to be shortened, since I'm not exactly statuesque. I love it. It makes me happy. Picks like a mother, though.

A wristful of silver bangles and cuff bracelets. These have been acquired over 20+ years. One I received from a friend a few years ago; another was a high school graduation gift; a few belonged to my grandmother. Every time I wear them, their gentle clink reminds me of the people who gave them to me. It also reminds the people around me that an armful of bracelets are noisy, so they usually end up on my desk before noon.

Red lace push-up special occasion bra. It's red. And lace. And cantilevered. Do I need to explain further? Moving on.

Brown pajamas with cupcakes on them. Well, a cupcake print, though they'll probably have actual cupcake on them by the end of the weekend. I bought these for myself as a birthday present last year. Not only do they combine two of my favourite things (flannel and baked goods), they're fantastically comfortable. Putting these on signals I am staying in. Not that I'm not usually staying in, but these make it seem like my number one choice out of many options.

A black chiffon, slightly flippy dress with illusion half-sleeves. I've had this dress for well over 15 years. I loved it from the moment I saw it. My grandfather gave me the money to buy it when I could barely afford rent. I later wore it to his funeral. I will never part with it.

I have quite a lot of evening bags, even though my evenings are pretty low-key these days (see cupcake pjs). My favourite? A small frame bag covered in cascades of black and white bugle beads that shimmer like an Art Deco waterfall. It's completely impractical, holding little more than a cellphone, a bank card and my hopes for a fantastic time. Whenever I carry it, I feel a bit like Daisy Buchanan, heading off to a party in West Egg.

A midnight blue linen tunic, with little pink chiffon flowers and embroidery around the v-neck and hem. Completely not my style, but I got caught up in the whole aging hippie, pottery making, poetry writing, ex-pat vibe of Positano during the best vacation ever. John Steinbeck famously wrote, "Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone." And every time I look at the tunic hanging in my closet, I know just what he means.

A pair of vertiginous black heels. Ankle strap, quite sexy. I practically need a sherpa to help me up them. They are two-hour shoes, and even then only if 1:50 of those two hours are spent sitting at a table, laughing coyly and sipping my drink in what I hope is a seductive manner. It's best if I don't attempt stairs in them, which may explain why I haven't worn them since I bought my house. They're very versatile, and go quite well with everything except sweatpants and more than three drinks.

It's a funny thing; I never know what's going to stay with me. I've had things I've happily worn for years that I've discarded without a second glance. And I have things like the old t-shirt I bought on vacation with an ex-boyfriend that I can't bear to part with (the shirt, not the boyfriend), even though the only thing I remember fondly about the relationship is the fact that I'm not in it anymore. I guess when it comes to my closet, sentimentality never goes out of style.