Introduction

She had always had a thing for stories. It didn't matter what form they took--television show, movie, miniseries. Short story, poem, novel, novella. Magazine article. Commercial. Song. Truth or fiction. Fiction masquerading as truth. Truth that had to be at least a little bit fiction. She didn't discriminate; all were welcome. To stories, she was Lady Liberty. They traveled from distant lands, and there she stood, a beacon at the end of the journey with open arms saying come in.

While it is true that she loved and welcomed stories of all kinds, it would be unfair to overlook the fact that she did have a soft spot for one kind of story. Stories about relationships, any kind really. Friends, parents and their children, siblings, co-workers, neighbors. If it was a story driven by people being in each other's lives, she would devour it. Sure, she enjoyed stories about solving crimes, saving lives, saving the world, but even in these stories, she was one to hone in on the B-story. What did she care if he saved the world? She only really cared what happened with his wife/girlfriend/daughter/father/bestfriend/whoever.

And in all fairness, it must be said that her favorite kind of relationship story was the kind of relationship story that reigned in the heart of all girls. The love story. The one that starts with the lonely girl and ends with those three words. Not those words, the other three. The three words that should be every girl's first words. Happily. Ever. After.

It would be reasonable to assume her problem with stories started at a young age, with stories about unlikely happiness preaching to young girls impractical hope. They are taught that in some unexpected way love will bloom, that over any difficulty love will prevail, and that when things get hard, a boy will appear who will make problems and fears go away. It is the lovely soil from which the eternal optimist blooms. And in this garden she resided until one day when she began to wonder....what happened to the girl who never pricked her finger on a cursed spinning wheel? The girl who had no fairy godmother to put the kingdom to sleep with her until her prince found her?

Her answer was simple. The love that would not be hers could be hers in stories. And this is why she loved them. In them she could live a life far beyond her own. Their laughs, her laughs. Their tears, her tears. Theirs was the love of her life. Theirs were the voices that drowned out her mundanity.

And so, as she gourged herself on stories, she began to wonder about those girls whose stories are never told. The ones who are single and whose lives sometimes seem painfully routine and normal.

Maybe they have their own love stories. The story that every girl should have, but few actually do. Not the one where someone falls in love with them, the one where they fall in love with themselves.

And as she wondered, she began to see that that is a story that deserves to be told, that that is a journey every girl should take. That taking the time to fall in love with herself is something every girl needs.

So this is the story of my year of me. The year when I celebrated being myself and embraced myself--really strange quirks and all. The year when I decided that if I had a boyfriend/husband wasn't an excuse anymore to not do things I wanted to do or not have things I wanted to have. This is my journey.