I should have felt satisfied. The venue was Trulucks, a soft-shelled crab-serving restaurant in downtown Dallas, complete with a quaint patio ideal for smoking and intimate girl-talk. I dressed in my favorite thigh-skimming, white, Theory dress displaying lust-inducing legs (body part most coveted by friends). I'd spent the entire day lounging by Lulu's pool, perfecting my already deeply golden tan. Typically, the pool was to my mood as toner to my skin, magically transforming what once appeared near-death dull into something full of vibrancy and life.

But today, something was missing. Even the pool was ineffective in filling my empty want. High levels of anxiety, grumpy baby face, uncontrollable eyeballs scanning nearby tables. I knew this feeling.

​I pounded one fist on the table and lit the first of many cigarettes. "Why don't I love him?" I demanded quite irrationally.

Lulu, unperturbed by my mild spaz attack, met my frantic look across the table and laughed. "Don't know, Annie," she said calmly. "Alex isn't your match."

Her laissez-faire response served only to fuel my growing panic. "Why didn't you mention this bothersome fact a year ago when we started dating?" I asked in a huff. "He's successful, attractive, big-hearted. I obviously can't break up with him. Look around, we're surrounded by fairies, babies, and perves."

"Hey, Annie," Harriett attempted to curtail the rolling boulder of my emotions. "Your birthday is tomorrow, the big two-five. We must celebrate!"

"Fuck my birthday!  I'm a freaking twenty-five year old student." I spat, aware that my voice had taken on a pathetic whiny tone, one that generally makes me want to stab someone in the face. But I proceeded with mounting gumption. "I'm sick of dating the wrong man. I'm sick of single. I want my dream man, now!" I screamed, Verucca Salt-style.

I noted my dramatics eliciting disapproving stares from a well-dressed gay couple munching delicate slivers of smoked Gouda and Granny Smith apples from the safety of their table for two. "Zzzzzzz"! I yelled in their direction, using my most obnoxiously shrill voice, "Zzzzzip it!" I threw a force field around our table, flailing my arms with great theatrics.

Deciding we were safe from the condescending looks of the happy homos I refocused my attention on my two friends.

Lulu unsuccessfully masked peals of laughter (Lulu lived for socially inappropriate awkward moments) while sweet Harriett did her best to appear oblivious to the scene unfolding around her.

Lulu Abernathy and Harriett McNeal. The depth of love I had for these two was beyond the scope of one lifetime. We often discussed how the three of us have battled our way through many a past life together. Aristocratic sisters, jolly fatty friends, passionate pirate lovers, we'd survived it all. I loved them like they were me.

Thank God for my friends. I smiled in spite of my mood.

I'd known Harriett the longest—Harriett was my roots. We'd formed an exclusive club in her tree-house and practiced tongue-kissing techniques on our arms.  It was in her wooded backyard that together we accidentally discovered the orgasm (much to Harriett's horror) during an innocent water hose game gone awry. And when we got older it was she I cried to when in pain, she who fixed me when I broke. Whether the source was a boy who talked too much, a girl who wanted a fight, a DUI, or any other of the litany of problems I found myself bombarded with in my youth, Harriett stood by my side, cursing the fool who dared trouble me.

​I knew Lulu before we spoke—Lulu was my soul. Something inside us each felt we were connected. Even in silence I heard her thoughts.  It wasn't always this way and at first I was reluctant to allow this uniquely beautiful creature inside my inner circle. Fortunately, Lulu didn't give me a choice.

​Honestly, I'm not sure where the three of us went wrong. Somehow we each found ourselves (much to our bewilderment) in the terrifyingly clichéd position of unwed women, living in the Midwest, rapidly approaching thirty.

Not that we couldn't be happy without men, because we could. The point was why should we have to? And I suppose "have" is a bit misleading, because honestly, not one of us "had" to be single.  We could've settled, for any one of the multitude of heart-wrenching disappointments that presented themselves throughout the years.

The British conman, for instance, who might've made a charming partner for Lulu, had she accepted his proposal. Or the creepy psychiatrist, twenty years her senior, who could've been Harriett's husband, had she said, "I do." Or the alcoholic lawyer who loved me like a child.  I could've wed him and spent the rest of my years feeding and taking care of his problems.  Or even, Alex Fitz, my current beau. Mr. perfect on paper.

Gainfully employed by Good Futton & Ferrel, the top architectural firm in downtown Dallas, he was considered a game changer in his field.  He came from good stock. His parents were local celebrities, a boisterous pediatrician and charity event/gala hostess, respectively.  Alex quarterbacked at the University of Texas.  In these parts that title put him just a notch below, or above, God, depending on whom you ask.  He was tall and handsome.  His teeth?  White and perfect.  He loved me. My mother burst with pride at the mere mention of his name. Her worst fears alleviated by my relationship with Alex.  He having solidified my worth, rescuing me from my destiny of life as a destitute spinster.

In certain places, I heard, single and thirty was the norm, encouraged even. In New York and Los Angeles, thirty was the new twenty (everyone knew that). But here in Dallas, it was different. In Dallas thirty was forty. If you were single and thirty in Dallas, you're fucked.

Fleets of beige Navigators plagued the streets, piloted by Starbucks guzzling, twenty-something moms. They toted gaggles of backseat, Sponge Bob DVD watching tots. High school, college, holy matrimony. This was the order of things. The only other viable option was marriage before college or high school even. But once the graduate tassel was cast from right to left remaining unwed was heinously frowned upon in the great state of Texas. Even the proudest of ego's disemboweled by traditional societies glare. The mentality of our city was, "If it ain't been bought by now, it likely ain't worth having." And my mother acted as mayor.

She'd taken to placing bets as to when Alex might propose. Good money was on my birthday. My twenty-fifth birthday. We all knew I was cutting it close. Yet something inside each of my friends and I refused--refused to settle.

Harriett came closest to tying the knot. She was in a steady relationship for over eight years. His name was Nick Masters. And unlike my relationships Nick and Harriett were a great couple, even in reality. We all knew he was about to pop the question last spring, and he did. Unfortunately it was the wrong question and the words, "What happens if I move to New York?" destroyed Harriett's carefully planned world.

Nick coached wrestling and had accepted the head coaching job at Cornell University. Harriett, an up and comer at her photography firm, felt reluctant to follow along. We all waited for Nick to insist, but he never did. So she stayed behind, broken and alone, just like Lulu and me.

​Back in the restaurant, out of the corner of my tiger eyes, (green with flecks of yellow gold) I spotted our fairy friends from before packing up their man bags and preparing to make their exit. I'm unsure whether it was the haughty jut of hip bones, the perfectly pressed Armani pantsuits, or the unmistakable air of absolute indifference toward me, but I was struck with inspiration. Jaime Knox.

​ Jaime's been my fantasy boyfriend since I was old enough to paint my nails and sigh over Dirty Dancing. Haunting memories bombarded my brain.

I imagined him and me on a date. In my mind we sat, side-by-side, distance rebuffed drinking in one another's being. We cooed and kissed and flirted and laughed--a gratuitous display of affection. The electricity between us two palpable, I smiled at the surge of electric energy I felt in response to my vision.

​"Bbbbbrrrrrrr!"

I snapped out of my Jaime-induced trance to a squawking Lulu, hand in my face, armed with an imaginary can of man-clamp spray. "Bbbrrrrrrr," she yelled, "you're totally man-clamping, Annie. You had the look."

A modern day female psychosis, man-clamping, is an affliction that affects all single women. For instance, if you find yourself fondly reminiscing over past loves lost, with a dreamy star-struck look on your face; you have the clamp. Or, when the bar nears closing hour and you feel yourself desperately searching the room for male eye contact and once eye contact is made, you feel your soul sigh to yourself, "He'll do."  You've got the clamp.

The mystifying thing about the man-clamp was I didn't notice it at first. It's like that one pitch black whisker growing sporadically from my chin. Each time I found it, I was horrified and amazed I failed to notice it sooner, before it grew to the length of a cow's lash. It seemingly shot up overnight, its grotesqueness suddenly a part of me. That's how the clamp attacked.

Lulu, Harriett, and I had, however, found a temporary cure for the clamp. If we saw each other get the infected look, we simply took an imaginary can of "man-clamp spray" and squirted it in the face of the clampee, while screaming "Bbbbrrrrrrr." It seemed to work well. But I couldn't help but feel annoyed at this abrupt intrusion into my reverie.

​"You were thinking about Jaime, I can tell," Harriett said with a toss of her honey blonde hair.

"Yup," Lulu agreed. "You had that twitchy-eyed look of concentration."

"Oh, eat pooh Lulu," I said. "I'm allowed to think of him aren't I? I wish I had his phone number, I know I could--"

"Annie, Jaime is G-A-Y a stone cold homo. Do we need to review the evidence, again?" Lulu asked.

I clenched my fists instinctively and took a deep breath. "He is not gay," I said, shaking my head to reinforce this fact.

"Ha!" yelped Lulu loudly. "Jaime's as gay as intimate butt sex.  He was a male cheerleader for God's sake!  Remember the time he sang, 'So Much in Love,' by that boy band, All 4 One, in the show choir performance? A capella.  Think of the facials and designer shoes!"

"Or how about his stint as a ballet instructor?" added Harriett helpfully. "And let us not forget the infamous tickle fight of '97," she giggled, fully supporting Lulu in her Jaime-bashing quest.

​Why does Harriett insist on reminding me of the tickle fight? Each time I successfully blocked this bothersome incident, she instinctively felt my mental victory and brought it back to the forefront of my memory. The vision flashed involuntarily to my mind. Jaime on top, legs tightly wrapped around his buddy, head thrown back with glee as he tickled Robert, pelvis to pelvis, laughing hysterically.  I shuddered inwardly at the memory.

​"Yeah, Annie, straight men don't do dick-to-dick tickle fights," Lulu explained.

"Okay, okay," I muttered, wanting to steer the conversation away from man-on-man tickling. "So the tickle fight's a bit bizarre. But we've had sex.  Gay men don't have sex with women."

"Bullshit," Lulu declared. "Don't be glib. Little Suri Cruise is proof enough that yes, gay men do indeed have sex with women."

Harriett nodded solemnly in agreement. "Annie, it happens all the time. Besides, you tried with Jaime and--"

"Look, any man would die to have you, sugar," Lulu, downed the rest of her drink. "You're stunningly beautiful, you're smart, you're even funny and well, Jaime passed. He left you, changed his phone number, disappeared, never to be heard from again. That alone makes him gay." She signaled the waiter dramatically for another round of drinks.

​ I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. "That's just what we say to make ourselves feel better when a guy isn't into us. Remember when Reed passed on you, Harriett? We decided he was retarded. And when Chris passed on Lulu, we made him an alcoholic."

"Chris is an alcoholic! He needs serious help.  And for the record, Reed's head's the size of a fucking big ass pumpkin. He's a total tard," Lulu yelled emphatically across the table, causing Harriett to shrink down into her chair.

​I laughed, thinking about Reed's big ass head and agreed. "Okay, y'all are right. Chris is a psycho lush and Reed has a few extra chromosomes, but Jaime? I'm not so sure he's actually gay."

​"Annie," Harriett started gingerly, "If you're still hung up on Jaime, what are you going to do about Alex?"

​"It's not fair," I wailed. "Why can't I love Alex back? He worships me, and Jamie Knox never did, right? Plus, my mother will implode if I break-up with Alex. Her mouth spittles at the mention of his family's name.  How can I think of leaving him...he's perfect."

​"But he's not Jaime Knox," Lulu vocalized my inner thoughts.

"Exactly," I moaned. "No one is Jamie Knox."
I was torn. The idea of re-entering the vast and vacant land of singledom on the eve of my twenty-fifth birthday made my insides itch. But then again, the thought of Alex's touch made me cringe.

When feeling indecisive Lulu, Harriett, and I relied on a time tested source to make big decisions. Lulu wasted no time whipping out the deck of Mermaid Tarot cards she kept tucked inside her Prada. Scoff if you must, but I needed answers.

She cleared the energy from our space and spread the deck upon the table before me. Lulu deemed herself a tarot expert, as she'd had hers read since she was six. She considered moonlighting as a clairvoyant, but never followed through. Serious in her role of psychic she told me to empty my mind. Harriett watched on with me as Lulu determined my fate.

"Is Alex the man you should marry?" Lulu asked slowly, once my face registered the appropriate level of Zen.

I repeated her question aloud and focused with all of my strength.

"Choose a card," Lulu instructed ceremoniously.
I hesitated, my hand hovering shakily above the cards picturing images of all-knowing ladies of the sea. Although our methods may seem cavalier to some, there was nothing casual about my decision. I recognized and accepted the possible tsunami like consequences of my choice.

Two futures flashed before my eyes. In future number one, Alex and I were on our honeymoon. We sloshed coconut scented oil on one another in a tropical paradise. We splashed in the tepid ocean surf. I ate local seafood, fresh caught off the pier. He ate pasta and steak. Weezer played on repeat in the background. We were married, bound as one. I had committed to a lifetime of bad music and meat. I drank heavily from my Pina Colada.

In future number two, it was Thanksgiving Day. I was surrounded by best friends and family. Lulu sat beside me. Her handsome husband to her right, his hand rested on her pregnant belly. Harriett cut turkey into teensy consumable bites for her twins, identical and blonde. My mother sighed deeply, tears in her eyes, mourning the loss of grandchildren to call her own. Alone, I chugged my rum apple cider.

He was an architect. He called breasts, breasticies. He had great hair. He never missed Sunday dinner with his parents, every week at eight o'clock sharp. He drove a Lexus. He referred to his obligatory daily blow job as a favor. He thought I was sexy. He thought France was gay. I felt safe in his arms. His mom picked out his clothes. He took care of me. He smothered my special.

I picked a card and handed it to Lulu.

"Oh man," she started, clearly excited. "Ask and the universe answers. Mermaids are so smart." Holding her hand high in the air, she showcased my chosen card. It bore the image of a beautiful mermaid thrashing wildly through a fisherman's net. Break Free! It proclaimed in bold print.

Lulu examined the details, reading them aloud. "It says break free. Try different ventures and experiences as a way to and grow and learn. Sometimes we get into ruts and routines because they feel comfortable. By drawing this card you're asked to swim outside your comfort-zone with magical mermaids and dolphins—reach out and try new options."

"Oh my God, the mermaids want me to leave Alex. They want me to die alone," I said softly, feeling both dread and relief.

According to Sternberg's triangular theory there are three components equating to the ultimate in consummate love: passion, trust, and intimacy. I trusted Alex. I knew Alex. I just didn't particularly want Alex inside of me. On the other hand, in this market at my age...two out of three's wasn't bad.

"Annie, the mermaids don't want you to settle. You've already wasted a year with this yawn. You have no passion for him. The mermaids are right, you've gotta break free from Prince Baby," Lulu said.

All of this made a strange sort of sense as we reviewed my relationship with Alex and chugged wine. My friends pointed out the obvious points of issue I'd somehow managed to ignore. We had no common interests. We couldn't carry on a conversation. His hairless chest that once inspired maddening lust now made me pray his shirtlessness was not a bid for sex. I dreaded his touch. Single was scary. But the idea of attending a lifetime of Sunday pasta dinners with Alex inspired a terror that ran even deeper. I knew what had to be done.

Helloooo, beautiful wattpaders!

Please, for the love, push my star if you enjoyed the read :)

Also, I am taking part in the Brigade Watty Awards, and I'll be in love with you forever for voting for Fag Hag in the contest. It is chapter 83 and here is the link:
http://my.w.tt/UiNb/io0KGX0lkv

Thank you so very much!!