All of my partnered friends have the same favorite past-time (i think), which is asking about the status of my romantic life and when, exactly, I will “find someone.”
I guess that’s what happens when literally 80% of your friends are in Very Serious Relationships that involve them considering grad schools together (?), talking about moving in together (??), and quiet whispers of marriage and the forever-type-of-together (????????). A large percentage of my oldest friends have now been dating for two, three, four years, and it’s getting a little uncomfortable.
It’s gotten to the point where I’ve actually fallen out of contact with some of my oldest friends because they are too busy spending time with their S/O’s family (!!) to spend time with friends, because they are hedging their bets I guess.
And so these people, I think, are fundamentally confused about how I’ve been single for such a long time. Twenty-two straight years of singleness was only briefly punctuated by four months I spent dating a nice guy who was probably too nice for me. After that short-lived relationship I occupied my time falling for boys who treated me like shit. The worse you treat me, the more I am attracted to you. Like, really, tell me more about how I am worthless and won’t amount to anything. Or just completely ignore me. I’m seriously turned on now.
LOL I’m gonna end up in a ditch on the side of some highway, prolly.
And if, for one brief moment, I decide to crush on someone who actually treats me like a real human being, I’ll make sure it’s with someone I am totally incompatible with. Straight boys are my favorite. Or people already dating someone. Or people who live a thousand miles away.
So, I was talking to my best friend last night, updating him about my fucked up life, and hearing about his piecemeal thesis and Lab Director with unconventional beliefs about comma usage (seriously). And as I downed whiskey after whiskey, I let myself finally cough out the undeniable truth: I am making myself miserable.
See, I boast a certain superiority in my singleness (if you haven’t been able to tell). I claim to feel stronger, more independent, more confident than my friends who require the companionship of another human being. I scoff at people who are in love, and the sacrifices they make for that love. I pretend to hold it in disdain, in contempt — as something beneath me. But the reality is, I’m full of shit.
The truth is, as my best friend walked to pick up his girlfriend on the corner of Summit and 19th — and I drunkenly ranted about love, and life, and whatever bullshit my liquored up vocal chords wanted to say — I knew I was about to be alone. And as she greeted him, and they turned around to head back to my friend’s house, I knew that we were going different directions. Their direction was together, mine was with nobody.
My phone had died, so I had the long walk back to my place on 11th avenue to ponder nothing but how cold I was, and how alone I was. That my direction was with nobody, because that’s exactly the way I had designed it.
I bit back tears, because I don’t cry anymore. I pulled my hood over my head and walked home — alone. Truth be told, I don’t know how to walk home any other way.
Maybe I never will.