I should be grading. Our quarter ended on Thursday, my grades are due Tuesday morning at 8 am, and I should be grading. I have a pile of senior portfolios in the trunk of my Civic and three crates of freshman portfolios in my classroom, and I should be grading. But I’m not. I’m sitting on my couch processing. Or at least I’m trying to. More accurately, I’m sitting in the midst of a tidal wave of emotion, nursing a headache from my birthday celebration last night, and grasping at working brain cells and irrefutable truths.

Before my siblings and my friends came over last night to drink wine, eat food, tell stories, laugh uncontrollably, and go out on the town, I had most of the day to myself. I went to the gym where I lifted heavy things, broke a sweat, and rolled out my tortured glutes on a foam roller. Then I went to get my nails done. I had made an appointment at the salon near my old apartment – one I used to frequent because it’s next door to my favorite coffee shop. When I called to ask if I could come in at 3 pm for a mani-pedi, the man on the phone said: “Ok – just you?” Now I’ve written about how often I field the question “just you?” It’s mostly in cabs or Ubers, and occasionally at restaurants, if I choose to eat alone, but this being my birthday and all, I was startled by this particular “just you?” “Yes,” I answered. “Just me.”

I arrived at the nail salon, and the woman who greeted me asked again “Just you?” Again, I answered in the affirmative. I began to wonder if this were some sort of cosmic reminder or question from the Universe. “Ok, ok, I get it.” I thought, “I don’t need to be reminded that it’s ‘just me’ on my thirty-fifth birthday, thank you very much” – thinking, as I so often do, about my unattached romantic status.

I climbed into the pedicure chair, submerged my feet in the bubbly, hot water, and pulled out my book – ready to bury my nose in it and escape my own turbulent thoughts. I was a few paragraphs into a new chapter when two loud, boisterous women in their sixties, and a young woman who appeared to be one of their daughters, came into the salon. They occupied the chairs next to me, talking over one another, finishing each other’s sentences, and sounding for all the world exactly like my mom and her sisters. I listened to their chatter, learned about their lives from my eavesdropping, and half-heartedly skimmed my book. They were Mary Eileen and Joann – sisters-in-law – and the young woman was Joann’s daughter, Kiera. They were celebrating Kiera’s successful passing of her nursing boards, and they’d found this nail salon because they could drink wine while they got their nails done. I liked these women.

After my manicure and complimentary shoulder massage (during which my nail technician exclaimed loudly and repeatedly “your shoulders are SO tight!”) I moved over to the drying station and was joined in quick succession by Mary Eileen, Joann, and Kiera. Well, what do you suppose I did? I talked to these strangers. They shared facts with me I had already picked up from my eavesdropping, and I told them my name, what I did for a living, and the fact that it was my thirty-fifth birthday. Mary Eileen tactfully asked if I had any children – her Catholic way of asking if I was married. “Oh no, I’m not married,” I answered, thinking, “Nope, it’s just me.”

Mary stood up to move around the drying station, and leaned over me, proclaiming “Don’t you worry! My grandmother met my grandfather when she was thirty-five. She had her first child at thirty-six and went on to have eight kids. Don’t you worry about your eggs!” Kiera was mortified, Joann giggled, and I wanted to hug Mary Eileen. I assured Kiera that her aunt had not embarrassed me, that I worried about my eggs all the time, and that Mary’s story was exactly what I needed to hear to chase away my darkest imaginings at 3 am on a bad night.

But Mary Eileen was not finished dispensing nuggets of advice. “Listen,” she said. “You need to pray to Saint Anne.” Even better, she encouraged me to go to the Basilica of Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré in Quebec – a place so holy that pilgrims are moved to climb the steps of the church on their knees. She said she had done exactly that nearly forty-five years ago, praying the entire way “Saint Anne, bring me a man!” She promptly met her husband. My quick Google search revealed that the Basilica is credited with curing the sick and disabled, but according to Mary Eileen, a pilgrimage and prayers can also garner you a husband.

I laughed and laughed as I talked with those women. I congratulated Kiera on her accomplishment and told Mary Eileen that her one remaining single son should move back from NYC just to meet me. I could be the love of his life. I think she was tempted, and she promised to pray for me. I told her I would take all the prayers I could get, collected my things, wished them the best, and made my way home to continue my birthday celebrations, thinking maybe that solo trip I’ve been contemplating should involve a drive to Quebec and a walk on my knees.

As I sit on my couch today, I still haven’t ruled out a trip to the Basilica, and I’m certainly counting on Mary Eileen’s prayers for me. But I’m also thinking about what it means to answer “just me.” You see, it’s both a truth and a fallacy, and living a single life has pushed me to add more people to my circle than ever before. Allison Janey joked as she accepted her Oscar last weekend, “I did it all by myself.” If you watched her speech, you know that Janey quickly added: “Okay, nothing further from the truth.” I could say the very same.

Every text message, Facebook message, phone call, tagged Instagram photograph, card, hug, kiss, and “I love you,” reminded me yesterday that “just me” could not be further from the truth. I choked up more than once with each reminder of the incredible, supportive, rock-star tribe of friends and family who hold me up and push me to be a better version of myself on a daily basis. I don’t have to walk on my knees for a miracle. I’ve got a life full of them.

Until next time…