The new year can serve as a time to put more than just 2009 to rest.
So this is the new year, and I don’t feel any different. I woke up January 1 with the same strawberry blond hair, the same mascara rubbed off under my eyes, wearing the same pajamas I went to sleep in. Things just don’t change that drastically from 11:59 p.m. to 12 a.m. — unless we’re talking 2012. But I never claimed to be a scientist or Mayan forecaster, so I’m going to leave that alone.
I usually don’t make serious resolutions because, for the most part, I’m pretty darn happy with myself. I love my friends, family, sisters. I manage to do all of the things I want to be involved in and still have time to make good grades and go out at night. And seriously, I think everyone wants to lose weight no matter what time of year it is. So what’s the one thing in my life I’m unsatisfied with? Love. The very thing I write about in this column. Ironic, eh?
Instead of sitting in bed hungover waiting for Mr. Right to hold a radio over his head blasting “Crash Into Me” outside my bedroom window, I decided it’s time to take matters into my hands. These are my love life resolutions for 2010.
Time for a technology purge.
Why do I still have “Jeff Love of My Life” as a contact in my iPhone when I know the Baltimore-based opera singer will never call me? And why haven’t I blocked that asshole on AIM whose sole purpose in his sex life is to keep me hopelessly attached to him? Am I seriously still Facebook friends with the ex I haven’t talked to in two years? Gone, gone and gone. I don’t want to look at those numbers or names anymore. Plus, sometimes being able to ask, “Hey, who is this?” when I get a text from an unfamiliar number is such a sweet feeling.
It’s time to get rid of the clingers
As much as I preach about honesty, sometimes it’s just so hard to tell the truth to guys who are trying so hard for my affections. No, Awkward Kid, sleeping in your bed with you doesn’t mean I like you — especially since I don’t even try to cuddle. And no, Annoyingly Persistent Republican, I will not go on a date with you no matter how many not-so-vague references you make to me on Twitter. I’m going to stop having conversations with people I have no desire to talk to. I have more important things to do – like write about them in this column.
It’s time to raise the bar
I will no longer date guys who are shorter than I am (come on, guys of Philadelphia, I know a lot of you are taller than 5’11” out there), and I can no longer look past a man’s poor taste in music. C’mon son, playing that Nickelback single is like the ultimate female-boner killer. I need a man who loves Colin Meloy, not Chad Kroeger. Ew. Also, it’s no longer acceptable for me to go on dates with you if you consistently show up in a University of Kentucky windbreaker and UPenn sweatpants. It’s really not difficult to reach for a button-down and jeans instead, now is it?
Along those same lines, it’s time for a new caliber of man. Oh, Random Student at House Party, you’re cute and all, but there are really only so many cups of Natty Light I can drink before your shtick gets old and it becomes glaringly obvious to me that you go home on weekends only to have your mom do your laundry. I much prefer Young Professional at Bar now; at least when he drinks beer on tap, it’s Stella Artois. My parents met at a bar and are still together — so why can’t it work for me?
It’s time for me to grow up
Well, at least a little bit. I have a long way to go until I’m a powerful businesswoman strutting down Walnut Street in business casual after work at 5 p.m., but I feel much closer to that image of myself than the memories of making out with strangers pinned up against basement walls. Moldy North Philly houses are so 2008. I’ve moved on. If I don’t like doing that anymore, then why continue the habit?
Maybe if I finally start following my own advice, I’ll be able to write an optimistic column for once. Ha, not going to happen. I want to change my love life, not my life outlook.
Welcome back to Pillow Talk, kids. It’s going to be another great semester in North Philly.
Libby Peck can be reached at email@example.com.