Quick Rant: Everyone Is in Love but Me

Picture this: the sun is rising in New York. Or at least, I suspect it is. All I can see is a sullen glow behind the clouds, the sky and the roadside slush mired in the same 50 shades of grey (see what I did there?).

I shut the blinds on yet another snow-blown morning while it wintry mixes all over the city and grab that reliable portal to the world when it's too cold to venture outside: my iPhone. And what's blowing up Instagram? Swaying palm trees and enormous drinks with no fewer than three unnecessary (yet campy and delightful) garnishes. My guy friends are in singles resorts named after summer footwear and my girlfriends are frollicking on this island or that. Here I am, marooned on Manhattan island, with nothing but an ornery cat, a DVR full of Kevin Costner movies and a couple of stale phone numbers left over from last summer's #Trampage.

Robin of Locksley would never fly off to Turks & Caicos without me.

There's a poignant, if more than a little bougie, sadness in preparing French toast and mimosas for one. And it's compounded by the dreary, monochrome palate of winter in the Northeastern United States, a palate rendered all the more dull by the vivid, tropical parrot-esque color of friends' Facebook posts from closer to the Equator. Happy hour has gone from commiserating over the inconveniences of Winter "Storm" Juno to me, sucking down a joyless parade of vodka sodas, straining to muster sympathy for everyone else's sunburns.

This winter, it seems that everyone is in love but me.

What's lonelier than browsing my cousin's baby shower registry with one hand while Tinder-ing with the other? Maybe booking my hotel room for my best friend's wedding and staving off a panic attack when the site asks me whether I'd prefer to reserve a room with two double beds or a single (wildly optimistic) king.

Or maybe it's dabbing an unexpected, involuntary tear before it rolls down my cheek while I look at friends' honeymoon pictures -- then realizing that there isn't anyone here to see that tear, or the ones that stubbornly insist on following it, anyway.

It especially sucks because I'm missing out on the best cuddling weather of the calendar year. February was invented for wiggling up to toasty armpit crooks and roasty spoon sessions under flannel sheets.

If any of you are acquainted with that rarest of unicorn species, the Manhattan Man Who Is Ready for a Relationship, well wouldyalookatthat?! A unicorn saddle! Just sitting here in my apartment, waiting for a ride!

Keep hoofin' it, Last Unicorn. Springtime has to be around here somewhere.

50 shades, indeed.