So much for getting knocked up by a rich guy in Orange County. At least I tried, and now I understand the flaws of this plan. 

I refuse to shut up, smile, and agree with everything you say…unless I’m getting paid to behave obediently, like a little bitch. Woof. 

I have too many thoughts and feelings to simply be arm-and-eye candy, which seems to be the cost of these relationships. Everything has a cost. There is a price to pay for being financially dependent on a partner, and it’s one my soul cannot afford. 

Forget Hot Girl Summer: I want a Rich Girl Recess. 

I packed my bags and moved to Malibu a few months ago, where I actually earn money to teach Pilates. Unlike Orange County, Los Angeles pays a livable wage for challenging, form-focused sessions. 

I discover a tremendous sense of community–of belonging–that I hadn’t expected. It’s the healing that I have needed for awhile. 

Sure, I haven’t been intimate with anyone since my Italian lover helped me move here, but I get ample endorphins from free Pilates classes. 

It’s not the same, but it’s something. 

Helping people gives me a sense of satisfaction. I actually want to get out of bed in the morning, and am excited to go to the studio. I’ve learned to survive on my own (well, and I get by with the help of my friends).

Since I’m currently budgeting, I don’t have the luxury of beauty splurges or dining out. Protein bars and my reusable water bottle have become survival staples. I realize how much money I wasted on aesthetic procedures in my younger years, mostly in hopes of attracting love.

Clearly, those appearance expenses didn’t help me find my special someone. There should be a money-back guarantee when being hot doesn’t lead to a romantic happily-ever-after (and instead, just “looking fuckable” with no ROI), but alas.

Instead of spending money to look photo-shoot ready, I focus on earning money–and to being the kind of person you want to get stuck in an elevator with. Obviously, I have to maintain some sense of external self-preservation (I will moisturize, and exercise, until the day I die). But I’m even more determined to be funny and fun.

It’s been at least a month since my last manicure. Today, instead of getting my partially-intact, Wolverine-looking nails polished and prettified at the nail salon, I remove the last shimmers of nail polish and the few nail-extension tips that haven’t already chipped.

Raw, bare, and fully-functional; I have become happy with almost nothing. 

And that, in itself, is everything.