In a Los Angeles autumn, the leaves and weather might shift so subtly that you, too, feel frozen in a forever-the-same climate.
No Christmas chill or reds and oranges turning to mushy plant matter beneath your boots.
But while I slough my tote bag on the couch in my studio apartment, mail and iced coffee in hand, the cards addressed to me remind me that time, like the seasons, is not standing still outside of my SoCal bubble.
Time comes for us all, and in this case it comes in the shape of seemingly nonstop wedding invitations in my mailbox and baby announcements on my feed.
A good number of my friends are spread across the US, mainly in Tennessee and New York City. And thanks to social media, I can celebrate their milestones and romantic ventures while making a meal for one.
I have always been the serially single friend.
The reliable plus one because god knows I’m not getting past a talking stage deep enough to throw them to the wolves (re: my wonderfully insane family).
But with big responsibilities (of being the token single one) come big realizations, too.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m half joking, but the conversations with my therapist do, admittedly, sometimes meet back at that question.
In therapy talk, I had a bad example of romance in childhood. An abusive home, watching my father battle alcoholism. Watching him take his own pain out on my mother, and the blackened eyes to show for it. The affairs, the promises she made to me and my brother that she was finally going to leave.
Ultimately, she would die before she got the opportunity. And today, I’m left with a yarn ball of their emotional baggage to unwind in a Koreatown studio apartment alone before I ultimately concede and get a cat or seven.
The single friend, because love, to me, has always meant pain.
The single friend, because when someone looks at me—truly, at me—I shut the door before they can see any more.
But, hell, do I want to be the one sending a god-awful destination wedding invite out one day. Somewhere, maybe, where the water is crystal blue in Central America. Then again, the south of France sounds nice if I’m feeling extra picturesque with my hypothetical fiancé.
So, here comes the work of learning what safe love looks like.
And I have a few theories!
In my 32 years, I have taken a few notes along the way from my friends with successful partnerships.
One of those being the “just because” kind of love.
I made this for you, just because. I wanted to drop by, just because. Your favorite food, just because.
Or, in this case, flowers.
My best friend’s husband was a great roadmap. Before they officially became a couple, I warned her that he was “love bombing,” because why the hell would this man she just started dating send flowers (pretty consistently) to her work just because?
But the just because was the important part, right? He wanted to lay his vulnerable heart out on the table for her. With each rose and tulip bundle, he said, “I choose you regardless of where this goes.”
And that, to my guarded and vigilant heart, sounded fucking terrifying—until it didn’t.
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So when I realized my habits needed to change if I wanted to ever find myself in a love like theirs, I gave myself training wheels in the form of our best friendship.
I hugged her more. Sending “just thinking of you” texts when I was, in fact, thinking of her. And here, on this timeless Los Angeles Autumn morning while she works in a chilly New York City hair salon— I send flowers.
Just because.
I think when we learn to love others unabashedly, spontaneously, and without fear, whether that person is a platonic friend or a future spouse—the world blooms.
I’m not “good” at love. Who the hell is? But with each gesture, each out-of-the-blue act of kindness, I like to think that I’m signaling to the universe that, maybe, I am ready for something like that.
Here’s to loving out in the open and fully fucking sending it.