Last Friday

Tonight was a typical Friday, as far as Fridays go when spiceboy is out of town.

I came home, as usual. I cooked myself a little din, as usual. I poured myself a little wine, as usual. And sometime after the din was finished and the dishes were done and I was splashing just a little more Cotes du Rhone into my glass, it hit me:

This is my last Friday alone as an unmarried woman.

That’s right. In just 15 days, I will get married. Next Friday at this time, my dear, lovely sister will be in New York, and we will be packing up and getting ready to drive back to Pennsylvania early the next day.

And the next Friday after that, I will be at my rehearsal dinner, in downtown Pittsburgh, with my closest friends and family.

And the next Friday after that, I’ll be married.

And the next Friday after that…

And the next Friday after that…

And the next Friday after that…

I’ve been engaged for nearly a year and a half. I’ve been with spiceboy for over five years now. And once we’re married, our lives really won’t change that much. At least on the outside. And for all of the time that’s gone by, and all of the life we’ve lived together so far, this whole marriage thing still blows my fucking mind.

No, it really does. It's so strange. Good, but strange.

And so here I am, alone in my tiny, cozy, wonderful 350 sq ft apartment, just like I’ve been on so many Friday nights before this. A glass of wine. A couple of books to read. The tv on mute in the background.

But this night is different. Because this is the last night I’ll be here in just this way. With just my last name. With just me to look out for, should I so choose.

I am 29 years old. It is 7:55 pm. Outside, the temperature is 64 degrees. And in a little less than 15 days time, I am getting married.

So let’s remember this moment, shall we? Let’s mark it for all posterity. I’m glad to have you here with me to do it, dear readers. Because I’m feeling a little bit sentimental tonight.

I am sitting on the futon, sans bra (thank god!) in one of spiceboy’s sacky white t-shirts and my most favorite Red Engine jeans. My bare feet are propped up on the coffee table. My toes are painted deep red—a color called Berry Hard. The computer is in my lap.
Outside, it is not raining, but there is rain in the air. A bird calls from across the street, and the sound echoes, bounces off of the brick buildings. Down on the sidewalk, a delivery boy chains his bike to the street sign—I can hear the chains rattling against the pole—he is bringing someone their dinner. And there is nothing else, save for the quiet rush of cabs down East 70th Street, the voices floating up to my window from down below, the occasional horn blowing from Second Avenue.

My last Friday alone as an unmarried woman is not fancy. It’s not glamorous. It’s just me and Manhattan.

And it’s about as perfect as I could have ever imagined it would be.