Free Year of the Chick by Romi Moondi Page A

current idea of an ANCIENT Peter which is still tattooed in your brain!”
    “Don’t say his name! We call him the ‘latte guy.’“ The simple mention of his name was enough to make me almost run away. Somewhere far where no one could find me. Like Botswana.
    Suddenly Eleanor and Amy were huddled in close, enthralled by this intervention.
    “Why can’t you say his name?” asked Eleanor. “That’s unhealthy, you know.”
    So now EVERYONE has a psych degree?
    I folded my hands in my lap and cleared my throat. “As long as I call him ‘latte guy’ he’s just a nice memory. But as soon as I call him ‘Peter’ he’s an actual guy I had once, and who I don’t have anymore.” My eyes started watering. “And then I have to miss him.”
    I watched the mist form in three pairs of eyes. Find an answer for THAT in your psychology book!
    Eleanor shook her head and stood up with a jolt. “Holy shit, it’s your birthday; you cannot be depressed on your birthday!   I’m getting us more shots.” She wobbled away, as any guy with eyeballs ogled shamelessly at her ass in the mini-dress.
    “Okay, okay.” Laura was leaning over me now. “Forget about Peter and look ahead. It’s only April you know.”
    “What difference does it make that it’s April? I’m terrible at this.” I wiped my eyes while envisioning Peter’s dimples.  
    “Just try to be more open!” she insisted.   “You don’t have to limit it to bars but I mean everywhere. Smile at guys in the supermarket, hang out in the bookstore. And don’t cross your arms anymore!”
    Who smiles at guys in the supermarket?
    Eleanor returned with a sexy male bartender and a tray of turquoise shots.
    I smiled at him as he wished me a happy birthday. Okay fine, it’s not that hard to smile. Those shots would lead to an additional round, and another after that.
    Which is pretty much the way my twenty-eighth birthday kind of went...

    ***

    My birthday evening led to a monstrous hangover, which led to Laura’s words repeating in my head non-stop: “ Don’t be a bitch to guys! ”
    The only single girls who could get away with “bitchy” were the ones with legs up to here and boobs out to there. With neither of those traits at my disposal, I spent the next two weeks being way more open.
    For starters I approached the beefed-up dudes in the health food section of the supermarket, asking them what “whey” is all about.
    Then I loitered around the men’s magazines at the bookstore, which led to an exposure of three guys per cubic foot.
    I even went to Home Depot in search of nails, and asked the male associate a series of nail-related queries.
    All of this was only a sample from the two-week test, but the sum of my success was little more than a smile, a nod of acknowledgement, or an “Is there anything else you’d like to know about whey/nails?” follow-up.
    I even went out to the bar for another night out. But just my luck, every guy I talked to had a girlfriend.
    So if I couldn’t meet a guy in broad daylight, and I couldn’t meet a guy at a bar, what was left?
    Internet-dating?
    I backed my car out of the driveway and laughed, a nice loud laugh to break up the misery of my early-morning drive to the train.
    If you’re gonna start dating Internet-creeps, you might as well get an arranged marriage…

    ***

    The laundry was done, the dishes were done, and the blogging was done. What next?
    I thought about the quarter of vanilla layer cake that remained in the freezer, and rose from my bed to pursue it.
    I didn’t make it very far, since my legs turned to lead when I was halfway down the stairs. That’s when I remembered that along with being open for the last couple weeks, I’d also been going to the gym. I’d even lost two whole pounds. Layer cake was not worth the damage to my progress, so I brushed my teeth instead. This guaranteed my stomach it was out of cakey options for the night.
    I returned to my bed and set my alarm for yet another