I was on my second jar of moisturizer, dancing in my underwear to the classic Beyoncè song — you know, the one that makes all the single ladies shake their booty — and thought, “God, I hate being single.”
I call my friend Stef every morning — more like a habit than real interest, who has things to talk about that are any different from the things that have been already talked about the day before? We have the routine of getting ready together, phone balanced on a precarious corner on the bathroom sink, skincare to give my face something to do instead of drying out, and judging me under the worst yellow light ever and a shameful selection of tracksuits that have surely seen better days.
She tells me about her wedding — more like complaining about the fact that she’s probably going to postpone it — and I tell her about the guy that slid into my DMs the other night. She’s excited, she can already see her best friend being coupled up, having glorious sex and finally having a life — because apparently, you can’t be single and have a life that doesn’t involve Tinder, lots of wine and crying on your Ben & Jerry.
I tell her to not get her hopes up, the dude has already sent me two dick pics in less than twenty-four hours and unless I’m some kind of sex addict that can’t keep it together, the DMs is the only place he’s going to slide in. She rolls her eyes — I know her that well — and keeps on talking about how she misses her fiancè. Really, Stef?
I don’t know much about being in a relationship. The last man I loved had a girlfriend already waiting in his bed and an STD I thank every god I didn’t get. What I know is that I was fine being single, like, really fine, and then some kind of zombie apocalypse happened and now all I want is that happily ever after all the books in my childhood promised but didn’t deliver.
Look, I’m not saying I’m desperate, there are far worse things happening In the world right now than me not seeing any action in my bedroom — except for the dumbbells, those babies kick my ass like no man could ever do — but am I constantly thinking about how this no-touch bubble we all live in could be a little less suffocating, a little less lonely and miserable with a man on the other side of the bed — or the phone, for what matters? Hell yes.
I’ve read a book the other day — yes, in one sitting because what else can you do? — and it was the kind of meet-cute that it’s not really cute, it’s rough and hard and sad but the sex is great and he’s flirty and writes songs about this woman who is, apparently, everything I wish I could be right now. They even have a dog. I could do anything to have a dog right now so then I would have an extra excuse to leave the house every. single. day.
But that’s not the point.
The point is, as much as I love being single and independent and happy on my own — because yes, you can actually be single and happy — I think I would also love someone who could hold my hand and make me tea in the morning before I wake up. Someone who can let me chose what movie to watch — but then end up watching whatever because who’s even paying attention right now? — or someone who could text me fun things and sexy things, making me want him even more but knowing that he’s there and waiting for me.
Maybe this isolation is really hitting hard or maybe, possibly, I’m ready for something different. Something that could pop this lonely cocoon I constantly live in, and reveal a beautiful butterfly ready to climb her tree.
Or at least, as my new fictional friend would say, “Shake his branches and see what kind of nuts fall out.”