Sometimes being a working nomad has its perks. Today was one of those days. After spending the morning working on non-online required stuffs (on account of our recently unreliable pirated Internet signal), I met a friend at Naked Lounge’s newest location at 11th and H Streets.

We worked on a project together for about an hour, and then I spent the rest of the afternoon there, happily chipping away at my to-do list (which now syncs to my Google calendar, thanks to this nifty web site) all while soaking in the inspiring vibe.

Now, there’s lots to like about this place: the green comfy chair in the corner, the cheery yellow walls, cool fruit photography, reclaimed airport chairs (or are they DMV chairs?), funky retro upholstery, cement counter tops – even vintage coasters! But, I gotta say, the coolest thing was the trip to the bathroom.

You get this key that’s like something straight out of the space age (which, I guess goes with the whole motif of the Retro Lodge project) that you hold over a sensor, barely touching it, and when the light flashes green, the door’s unlocked. But, even cooler, on the way to the bathroom, you get a sneak peek of the rest of the pad. Oh, and, in the bathroom hallway, there’s a Frank Lloyd Wright quote painted on the wall.

A few years back, I resigned myself to being 30 and single. It was kind of a proud declaration made in jest because deep down I didn’t actually think that would (and I hoped it wouldn’t) be my reality. And yet, here I am, the year of my 30th birthday and, you guessed it, single. Well, ok, my birthday is in July, so it’s a few months away. But still.

And the crazy thing is, it didn’t really to bother me. I mean, I have a good life. I love where I live. I have a lot of great friends. My business is on the brink of taking off. My family lives relatively close and I see them fairly often (sometimes too often). My parents are living, married, and love each other. I get to do all sorts of cool stuff like teach at a community college and train to be a docent at the Crocker Art Museum — oh, and let’s not forget Scottie. I mean, seriously, what’s not to love about buzzing around Midtown on a scooter? Especially when the sun is shining. It makes me feel very Tuscan.

But I got a phone call from my mom today, and fam Santoro will be celebrating her birthday this weekend. No biggie, right? Except for the fact that my 26-year-old brother now has a girlfriend. (Maybe if I link to his blog he’ll actually update it. Ahem, Tony. I know you’re reading this in your RSS reader, which is a lame excuse to not leave comments.) And not only will she be joining us for Mom’s birthday dinner, but so will her parents. And it begins.

Actually, it started a few weeks ago when my best friend Sarah had her 30th birthday. She has a 3-month-old son and there’s this picture from the party of me holding Mikey (that’s her son). My mom saw the pic (this very one).

DANGER! (Cue alarm bells.) Warning to any single women approaching 30 (or any age for that matter): Do not, I repeat DO NOT, allow Mom to see photos of you holding an infant of any shape, size, species.

“Ohh,” Mom cooed. “You look like a mom.”

A statement that she quickly followed up with, “I want grand kids,” delivered, of course, with the most sad/hopeful puppy-dog-face that a mom could muster. (Considering that my mom happens to be Cartoon Mom (another story for another day), mustering such a face wasn’t that difficult for her.)

And when we talked today, she started telling me about a friend of a friend who knows a guy who’s “26, solid, really nice guy,” blah, blah, blah.

Rewind. What?

26? Nope.

Next, please.

Now, now, now, you’re probably thinking exactly what my mom said to me, “You’re just narrowing your selection even more.”

Like it’s not already uber-narrow. Sorry, but I’ve kind of always known that it’s going to take one heck of a guy to put up with me. I don’t mean to belittle men or to sound conceited, but I haven’t met many guys who can handle a strong-willed, overly assertive, wildly ambitious, admittedly border-line controlling woman like myself.

If I had, well then I probably wouldn’t be single, now would I?

The title of my (yet-to-be-published) memoir is Woman in Progress. I’ve adopted it as my mantra, and I’ve also discovered the mysterious beauty of all things in progress.

In progress spills into other areas of my life: I’m part of a writer’s group, and we call ourselves Writers in Progress. I also give the students in my writing classes the same name.

In progress embodies an inherent attraction. Attractive because in it there is room to grow, which subsequently presents a challenge. If something, say a piece of writing, is a work in progress, then it’s not finished. It’s not quite right and still requires the attention of its creator. It needs some tweaking, so the writer returns to the keyboard, adding sentences, searching for better words, deleting the unnecessary and writing more. A work in progress by definition is flawed.

In progress alleviates the self-inflicted pressure of perfection. Sometimes, after weeks like the past two, I am tired. I need to rest. But this nagging feeling in my neck and between my shoulder blades won’t let me — it’s the pressure to do more, to check my email, to start the laundry, to not sit down until every last pile is sorted and paper in its place, all neat and filed away under “2009 cell phone bills.” Yes, I even label manila file folders in pencil.

In progress means I don’t have to file. Not right this instant, anyway. But if saying no to something as trivial as filing is so hard, imagine what a difficult time I have saying no when my dad asks me to help him with his business. Or when a student asks me to accept an essay after the due date, even though the syllabus explicitly says (in bold and italics) “No late work is accepted.” Or when a friend invites me to a party.

It’s hardest to say no to time with people I love. Because I know what it feels like when they say no to me — like something else is more important than our relationship. Like they don’t actually want to spend time with me. And I don’t ever want to make another person feel the way I do when an invitation gets turned down. But I also have to remember that I know what it feels like to need to say no.

By claiming the mantra Woman in Progress, I concede that, what do you know, I’m not Wonder Woman after all. I give myself permission to say no, even when I really don’t want to. Being a Woman in Progress allows me to practice extending grace by extending it to the one person who probably needs it the most: me.