Sadly, my life isn’t only meager in the cubicle; it is pretty down right sad in the bedroom right now.

(Hence the above title for those of the dense variety.)

So there I was…somewhere between “I can’t get a date to save my no-leg-shaving ass” and “Wow, am I wearing some sort of sign that says: Crazies – sign up here?” when I decided I was giving up on dating. In fact, I am unsure if my dating life has actually been mediocre or off-the-charts nutty. Either way, I gave that shit up about four months ago.

Actually, looking back on it, I cannot help but hysterically laugh out loud at how lame I was being (a habit of mine you should be familiar with by now – see previous entry). Anyway, I was imaging myself a single sage with globs of time to read great books, study the art of yoga, pick up gardening and learn how to cook. I called it my “Zen” period. Few things wrong with this scenario, kiddies:

1) I don’t have gray hair or 10 cats.

2) I live in high-rise in D.C. Where the fuck am I gardening exactly?

3) Anyone who knows me knows that I am restless; try as I might, Zen ain’t happening.

 I was out with some friends one night when I saw there was a cute boy (turned out to be running in the same circle) at the jukebox playing Led Zeppelin. I decided to mosey on over and give him more money to keep rocking the Zep – because if everyone was lucky, I would break out the leg guitar a little later. The best part is: I was totally uninterested because I knew he was there to meet a girl, so I felt no pressure and just wanted to drink beer, listen to music and chat. 

Well in the day and age of Facebook stalking, Mr. X found me through our mutual friends and wrote me a lovely little message about how nice it was to meet me, offering a hang out session soon. Seeing as he didn’t have a baby arm or a heinous high-pitched Midwestern accent, I was pretty excited.  Fast forward a few weeks and I am at a birthday party he is throwing for a friend. We hit it off, talking, drinking and listening to music. He was rather aggressive, hugging and touching on me in front of people – which I happen to be Ms. Awkward McGee, so I do not respond well to that sort of stuff. 

Then there was the next day text messages…going through the motions about how fun it was, how I loved our chat and how we should hang out very soon. Well certainly, he said, right after he got back from his trip to Miami. That date came and went, and I heard nothing -- except for a few intermittent texts promising that we would hang out soon, but he really needed to buckle down on school. (Full disclosure: He is a third-year law student coming up on final exams.) I was torn. I was torn between being understanding and having used that excuse before on people I really didn’t want to see at the time. I also had the idea in my head that perhaps in that fleeting moment that he kissed me goodbye, he saw me in the light and immediately regretted everything he had done the night before.

Well time goes on and heals all wounds or something. I didn’t hear much until I had a friend’s birthday to plan. Well, of course, he was invited, as this birthday party was for our mutual friend. I didn’t think he would come and I didn’t think too much of it…until I got super sweet Facebook message #2:

Hellooo

Just wanted to say what up and apologize for my little disappearing act. I actually didn't disappear entirely... I'm still here, BUT i've been a complete social recluse for the past couple of weeks, and sadly prolly will be until exams are done :( (May 7)

My fun-loving ways have come to bite me in the ass such that I literally need to grind out work like i've never done before if there's a hope in hell that I do okay this sem.

While you'll prolly see a bunch of my friends tonight at *****'s bday (assuming you're going), I won't be there, I'll be here working.

Either way, I just didn't want you to think that I was being a dick and just fucked off or decided to ignore you. Not true!!

Okay, cool. Have fun tonight!! Wish I could come! :)

I typed and I typed and I deleted and I deleted until all I could come up with was, “Well, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

Then I stepped back, realized we still have mutual friends and wrote: “Well good luck with everything.”  

And then an Easter miracle happened.

After a night of too many shots and craft beers, I found myself drinking bottomless mimosas at brunch trying to mask that fact that I thought I was going to die – and I was dressed like Gwyneth Paltrow in "Country Strong." So after saying goodbye to my brunch buddies, I zombie-walked my way into CVS, bought the largest water they had and headed out the door. It is at this point that I open my purse and drop a wad of cash and my iPhone right into oncoming foot traffic. Then some spry hipster with a frisbee picks everything up for me and slyly says: “Good choice!” as he shows me we have the same iPhone case. Now, that is one line I have never heard before.

He immediately recognizes I am on the verge of death and says I should come sit in the park with him for a little bit because it is far too nice of a day to go home and coma off this hangover. Now, it is at this point that I would normally give a polite decline, crawl to the metro and wonder what might’ve happened.

Not sure if it was the three mimosas; the fact I still might’ve been drunk upon waking up; or just that I’m loving life a little bit, but I decided to take him up on the offer. And somewhere between me feeling like I was going to throw up or have an accident in my pants (to put it nicely), I realized I was smack dab in the middle of some hilariously awful rom-com. Set scene: Two mildly-attractive strangers bump into each other in the city street, the man helps the damsel in the distress, they end up in a park somewhere (presumably by a fountain) and realize they have everything in common! Well, it was not nearly as cute…but we chatted for what felt like forever until I politely had to excuse myself before I ruined his pristine image of me. We exchanged numbers and he hailed me a cab. Maybe this one will actually call.

“Only the mediocre are always at their best.”  -- Jean Giraudoux

Spoiler alert: this entry is somewhat serious. So strap in.

Listen, I didn’t steal that quote from a Chicken Soup book or even a Wheaties box, but it works in its own twisted way. In fact, I wish I had heard this adage before I started shelling out $300 a session to figure out why when I analyzed where I was in my life, I suddenly found it very, very hard to breathe.  If I had heard this glass half-full philosophy a few weeks ago, maybe then I could start looking at myself as perhaps an epic winning reincarnation of that late great Charlie Sheen – oh, wait, he isn’t dead yet?

The robber baron I see on a bi-monthly basis calls it a panic attack. And the most brilliant part of this attack is that it is brought on by being utterly and completely disappointed by my ‘accomplishments’ thus far. But how paradoxical…how can being ordinary create anxiety?  How can going at something half-assed keep you up at night with worry?  

I think it comes from the fact that I live in some sort of rags-to-riches 80s movie (think ‘Big’ or ‘Secret of My Success’) where being cute, funny and having a pretty OK personality got you the job of your life – and significant other of your dreams -- before the age of 30.  Well it was a sad day when I realized that wasn’t true – not even close.  And guess what? My job may be a little shittier than most of the jobs held by friends and family...but (excuses aside) it could be a lot worse.

So, if my therapist finally gets to good part, I might one day feel like I am not having a quarter-life crisis (a phrase I hate uttering because of a one Mr. John Mayer).  But instead, the most enlightening thing he said to me was, “Do you sometimes laugh at things that aren’t funny or maybe just laugh to yourself?”

At this point I literally couldn’t do anything but laugh at that question then shoot him my “Girl, are you for real?” eyes.  I do that at LEAST twice a day.  And saying twice is grossly underestimating. I wanted to ask him, “Have you met me?” I laugh at everything…and I am the queen of inappropriate comments. In fact, today I told someone I was going to pull a Sylvia Plath when I got home (look it up).  I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why he was asking that question and, even worse, how the fuck I was going to answer it. Why yes, I do both of those things; does that mean I’m certifiable? If there is one thing that keeps me going in life, it is laughter…humor…being able to find something funny and uplifting. Now, if he is going to take that away from me, we are going to have a problem.

Well good news folks, I lied to him and told him I didn’t think so. So I am not crazy, just a little overwhelmed by being underwhelming. A feeling I am sure we have all felt at least once in our lives.  So perhaps it is just that I am an overanalyzing perfectionist or I am really failing at life, at least I can breathe now… and I still have my ability to laugh.

And to top it all off, this mediocre gal had three job interviews this week so I am just going to keep on being my best!

I’ve always assumed that the only people who actually read “Dilbert” cartoons were the awkward engineer types who think Gary Larson is far too intellectual for most commoners, yet always need something to talk about when the elevator is taking to long to get to the eighth floor.  I mean, face it, “Dilbert” is basically “The Office” meets “Family Circus” (and I know how EVERYONE feels about “Family Circus”). It’s like the kind of shit your mom might cut out and put in your lunch box on your first day at your big girl job.  Not saying that happened or anything.

Well now that you understand my hatred for Dilbert and his mid-life crisis inducing humor, I must share with you that I had a Dilbert moment today. I realized my life was that cheesy, monotonous grind of micro-managing hell.

There I was, sitting in my cube, sipping on my coffee and checking only the most important Facebook statuses freshly posted at 8 a.m. when I was rudely distracted from my actual work by a superior asking me to do something or another, “… blah blah blah DILBERT.”

I held the tidal wave of hot coffee back from my burning esophagus and calmly swallowed…not just the moldy tasting coffee, but also my pride. I was being assigned the task of finding out how to legally secure a “Dilbert” comic strip for an upcoming association presentation.

A “Dilbert” fucking comic strip -- in case you didn’t get that earlier.

It was at this point that I wanted to call my parents and let them know that the small fortune they spent on my superior journalism education was being used to Google “Dilbert" cartoons.  (And also to blog in my underwear. Yup, it happens).

Instead of immediately running to the elevator and taking it up to the penthouse to jump off the highest spot I could find, I realized a couple of silver linings:

1)   I am an excellent Googler – a skill I will always have over my older co-workers who think the search engine might be run by some wizard behind a curtain; and

2)   At least it wasn’t a “Cathy” cartoon.

Oh, and in case you are wondering, you better be willing to shell out at least $225 to redistribute Dilbert’s over-cooked one liners.