Ugh

Dearest Friend,

I find it pathetic that, at the end of a fairly good run this year, I am ever so slightly disappointed that I somehow still find myself single this December. So I’ve found a well-paying and challenging job. So I’ve managed to balance my laundry, my rent, and my (fast food-based) nutrition these past twelve months. So I’m still sane. I’ve accomplished all this and yet when I tick of the invisible list in my mind, I find myself frowning at that checkbox marked boyfriend. It bothers me that I’m bothered because I know I shouldn’t be.

911vhtycgh

A 2017 planner I came across somewhere has a status check in one of its front pages that goes – I’m single by choice, not my choice, but anyway. No matter how much I gripe about how oily my face is or how fat I am, I know in my heart of hearts that I am not so grotesque as to completely turn off the average human male. Moreover, I know I’m a pretty tolerable, if not likeable, person. If I really wanted to – if I was brave enough – I could go on a couple of blind dates, I could practice flirtation with some anons online, and I could probably even bully someone to be my boyfriend for a few hours just so I can say I’ve had at least one boyfriend in this lifetime – incorrigible behavior which, if you’ve met me, is something that’s alarming consistent with my personality.

But do I really want to? Be un-single, I mean. I know I’m not brave enough to initiate, if only because the process towards un-singlehood terrifies me.

Person: Let’s have coffee sometime?
Me: Sorry, I need to do my laundry.

People who are on Tinder amaze me because I think it’s very brave to put yourself and your heart out there, essentially giving the general public the authority to shatter your heart and your ego. I could never go on Tinder, not only because my highly conservative parents would sit me down to have a ‘talk’, but because I’m brittle. I’m frail. So I never lose the keys to my house. So I never run out of clean sheets. So I don’t need a shoulder to cry on – don’t even want a shoulder to cry on, because it’s embarrassing and a logistical nightmare to get snot on someone else’s shirt. That doesn’t mean I’m strong or that nothing can break me. It just means I know how to stay alive.

I forget, yet again, my point in ranting about this. I’d been thinking of a good theme to write about for the holidays, and yet, like a pining, whiny, googly-eyed heroine in a romantic comedy, I ended up writing about the joys of being alone.

A.

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