I was asked the other day why my “status” on Facebook was blank – not showing anything … you know, wanting to know if I was “single” or of course, the only other option in my mind (if you had to check a box), is “entangled in something-or-other sticky.”
Why it’s important to some to always have to denote whether we’re “here,” to hook-up or be added “unto,” becomes laborious. I just know I woke up one day and realized that I was meant to be alone … just took me a few decades after that awakening to actually achieve “single-hooded-ness.”
Naturally I don’t want to die that way, so alone that when I pass I’m not discovered for days or weeks until some bill collector finds me, swatting flies away with my past due notices, only to realize he’s not getting his for a while either. But the reality is, I’ve proven many times how awful I am at relationships. People talk about notches in bedposts and belts … whatever. Let’s talk about the notches we have in our hearts and the holes we put in our heads time and again. Finding always that something so lovely and very doable can end, undone.
What does it mean to call yourself “single” today in our world? Go to any restaurant anywhere where you must wait for seating and show up as you are, by your lonesome and you’ll find out – when you enter the tapas bar hoping to mix it up, catch an eye or two gazing back at you hoping that happy hour will prove to be truly just “that” and what’s the fist thing they’ll say to you as you enter?
“Just one? All by yourself? Single are we? Oh, you poor thing. I hope you have an amazing appetite though cause let’s face it, you don’t have to worry about anyone poking your ribs tonight, right? So loosen your britches and please sir, remove that sad blazer.”
And you know it’s true, especially being seen leaving all alone, with squeaky styrofoam boxes full of enough food to feed even your date’s kid too if you had a date but you don’t so you return home to enjoy the sizzling meat strips for the second time, after midnight, in your dark dank kitchen.