Being single is a lot of things, few of which are ever accurately represented in a romantic comedy.
When I am at home, on my couch built for two, one limb on each corner of the couch (heretofore referred to as starfishing), watching MTV’s Real World v. Road Rules Challenge, I never think, “Oh, I wish I had someone sharing this couch with me, bitching about how Sports Center is on and why do I have to watch trashy reality TV.”
When I have worked a long day at my temp job and then gone to the gym and come home to flop onto my bed in my unair-conditioned bedroom, I never long to be sweatily spooned.
And when I have raging PMS and want to eat rainbow sherbet straight out of the carton with a plastic fork, while standing up in my kitchen without the lights on, I do not want to share it.
I would say the above is 90% of my feelings about being single. I am not a giant make-out slut (usually) or a bitter cat lady (yet), but having my time to myself is really nice. I’ve been in relationships, and I’m sure I’ll be in one again, but it is not stressing me out.
Lately though, it seems like every friend I have is in a very serious, VERY PDA oriented relationship. Six months ago, most of my peeps were single and now some of them are even engaged. That’s great for them. I want everyone in my life to be happy and fulfilled. I want sunshine and rainbows and Care Bear Stares for everyone I know.
But, when everyone you (I) know falls in love at the same time, it makes you (me) feel like you (once again me) missed something. Like maybe I was reading a book when the love waves were sent through the television. Or maybe I ordered a beer when the sangria was spiked with Love Potion #9 and Spanish Fly. Or maybe Cupid was shooting everyone with arrows the day I chose to stay home from the picnic in the park because I needed bleach my kitchen counters.
So, as a result of my sparkling white counters, I am missing out on a lot of girlfriends only time and being relegated to third-fifteenth wheel status fairly often these days. Frustrating. Imagine an idyllic scene around a camp fire (or like, a flashlight on a rooftop) where two to nine happy couples are snuggling and giggling and touching each other’s faces with their fingers (truth). The wine is flowing, everyone is relaxed and happy. And then there’s me. Trying to make polite, and even enjoyable conversation with my beloved long-time friends, while allowing them pauses to make out with their boyfriends/husbands/lovers (ewwww, lovers).
And they all say the same thing, in this cloying, sing-songy voice: “You’ll find someone. Just stop looking.” Um, I’m not looking and I don’t really want to find anyone. I just want you to be a good friend to me without having to hang out with/hear about/arrange my schedule around your boyfriend/husband/lover (God, that word. It’s like a wet kiss on the forehead.)
To be fair, I’m a little extra sensitive to the whole situation. I’ve been burned by a few too many girls who were my best friend until some guy came along. I’ve gone from hetero soul mate to acquaintance faster than you can say, “Didn’t we have plans tonight?” Girls like that are hard to spot. You never know your friend is that kind of person until she (or he) is already calling themselves “we” and acting like her (or his) life before the “special someone” came around was like a bad dream filled with desperation and lonely sobbing into an old hope chest overflowing with broken promises.
Honestly, I have a lot of lovely attached friends, whose significant others I adore. As for the rest, thanks for the fierce blog inspiration!