The Sexy Single Life

Or, How I Spent My Sunday

Carrie Bradshaw set every woman up for disappointment. Well, maybe not every woman. But if you were, say, in your 20s when Carrie was living it up in NYC as a fabulous single gal in her 30s, there's some degree of letdown the morning you wake up, check your Sunday Staying at Home outfit in the mirror and realize that not only are you older than Carrie was during the show's run, but your life has taken a sharp turn away from anything resembling glamorous.

Take, for example, my aforementioned Sunday Staying at Home outfit: yoga capris, t-shirt and a sweatshirt because my house felt like a meat locker. Not too bad, but my green and red plaid socks definitely clashed with my brown Aztec-print slippers. And my unwashed curly hair exploded out of my beat up headband in an untidy mess. My Old Navy-meets-Kohl's ensemble? A far cry from Monolos and Gucci.

Then there's my Sunday routine. While Carrie might have had some pretentious "brunch" with her gal pals (pick a fucking meal, ladies. BREAKFAST OR LUNCH, OK???), I got up, threw on aforementioned outfit, washed my face, sorted laundry and headed downstairs. Poured myself a cup of joe, put a load of laundry in the washer, toasted an English muffin, sat down, watched some Perry Mason. Finished breakfast/lunch and did my PT exercises. Watched more Perry Mason. Switched loads around in the laundry cycle. Then, deciding that acting like I was an 80-year-old wasn't bad enough, I decided to watch my favorite old ladies instead — I turned on some Golden Girls while I tidied the kitchen and washed dishes.

Then I watched some more Perry Mason.

At this point I decided that while being lazy on Sunday was perfectly fine, showering was probably a good option. But as I started the long climb up my steps to the bathroom, I saw the gallon of vinegar I'd placed there, and I knew I couldn't put it off another weekend. I had to ... plunge the bathroom sink.

Bathroom sinks are gross. They're where spit and hair and soap scum merge to form the world's most water-resistant, impenetrable barrier. Mine is particularly gross because the pipes are old, so about every six months I bust out the vinegar, baking soda and plunger and spend a good hour busting up a clog that must be the size of a small terrier. It's a thankless job, but it's mine. Because I'm a sexy single gal. And there's nothing sexier than plunging a drain.

So up I went to the bathroom with the tools of my trade, and the relentless process began: baking soda, vinegar, hot water PLUNGE PLUNGE PLUNGE. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. After about 45 minutes, the bowels of my sink let out a god-awful noise and a small geyser erupted in my bathroom. The worst of the clog -- big black hunks of grossness and what I can only assume was six months worth of dried toothpaste and mucous  -- flew out of the drain and began a slow circle to head back down it.

There I stood, in my Sunday Staying at Home outfit. Sweaty. Covered in disgusting drain water. Smelling like a salt and vinegar potato chip. And I thought about how my life, far from being glamorous, is more like the gunk exploding out of the drain every six months. Kind of disgusting and definitely a gross mess. Nothing like I thought it would be when I was in my 20s.

If I were Carrie Bradshaw, I'd at least have plunged in a pair of Monolos.