Right now you’re picturing me as
the stereotypical single twenty-something who hasn’t shaved her legs in weeks,
who wears bulky knit sweaters and has a tumblr account and re-reads ‘Pride and
Prejudice’ every couple of months and cries every time. And that’s just not me,
aside from the leg shaving thing which I’m mostly doing to save on shower time.
I’m a cool girl! I wear a leather jacket and hip bellbottoms and try my best to
look like a cross between a more put-together Janis Joplin and a much, much angrier
Zooey Deschanel. No sweaters and no Kleenex boxes next to the Jane Austen. I
keep it pretty together.
That being said, I devote a lot of time and effort into
keeping the howling, sucking, angry black void of loneliness inside me from
spilling out into the world and engulfing the earth in a fury of harrowing
sorrow. I usually hold back the tide by drinking, going through a 24 pack of
Costco burritos in a week, chain smoking, listening to terrible pop music about
teens breaking up, carrying a flask, masturbating, and finishing off a twelve
pack while watching Friday Night Lights.
 |
| If he's fictional, sign me up. |
So why am I terminally single, you ask? Well, in high school
I had bigger things to worry about than boys, like where to get more pot, or
how to get money for pot, or how to not smell like pot. I wasn’t so much a
tomboy as I was completely androgynous for a couple of formative years and
therefore mostly didn’t notice the boys who mostly weren’t noticing me. Being a
late bloomer didn’t help, neither did being a total smartass and also
absolutely terrified due to inexperience. So I just never really understood
what the girls were talking about when they broke out the Tiger Beat’s at
sleepovers and went on and on about Devon Sawa and N’Sync and the rest of those
horrible 90’s hair-gelled mama’s boys. In university, however, this overwhelming
fear of the unknown translated outwardly as an aloofness that turned out to be
incredibly attractive to a certain type of guy – who turned out to be a certain
type of narcissistic sociopath. I dated a string of these winners in a
succession of hazy party years that consisted of screaming matches, tantrums, groupies,
weird sex and any intoxicants I could get my hands on. Then, about three years ago I woke up - put my
clothes on - walked home, and realized that it was time to stop looking for
someone who could chug a bottle of absinthe and time to start looking for
someone who I could hold a ten minute conversation with without reaching for
the whiskey.
Ever since that fateful day I have been somewhat
frustratingly yet mostly happily single. I’ve dated sporadically, sure, but
nothing serious and nothing that’s lasted more than a couple dinners and trips
to the movies. And sure, there are nights when Loneliness creeps in and brings
his friends Desperation and Depression, but it only took me a short while to
realize that these things have less to do with being single and more to do with
being uncertain. Feeling lost is a horrible place to be and it’s hard to feel
lost when you’re sleeping next to someone. Yet, I haven’t allowed that sense of
being adrift to spur me into settling for some schlomo who doesn’t quite do it
for me. As hackneyed as it may sound I’m holding out for something big, and as
hyperbolic and histrionic as I may get in some of these entries, I want you to
know that being single isn’t pitiful, it’s hilarious, and I hope you can laugh
along with me as I wade through uncomfortable romance and misplaced passion and
awkward flirtation.
By now I’m an expert.
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