This is not the time to ask a woman why she is still single

It’s Valentine’s Day.

With the exception of family Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners, Valentine’s Day seems to be the most popular time to ask a woman with no significant other why she is still single.

Let me preface this by saying I’m a millennial woman. I get a kick out of self-deprecating memes about being single and drinking too much and laugh at things solely for the purpose of not crying over them instead. I myself have joked when people ask me why I’m still single that the fruit just isn’t worth the squeeze or I’ll remind them that I’ve been called crazy many times in the past by many exes. I usually always laugh and brush it off but as of late I just really want to clear the air to address this, especially for some women who may also be feeling the same way.

We’re in the middle of a global pandemic. We’ve been under a strict lockdown for longer than many of us would like, and we find ourselves completely isolated; not just from the opposite sex but from close friends and family. Couples who have been together for twenty years have had their marriages and relationships fall apart in the last year. In short, these are trying times, and the last thing you want to ask a single woman is why she is still single. This has to be the worst time imaginable to ask a woman a question like this.

For me, personally, as if a global pandemic wasn’t enough to halt dating and cease any efforts to pursue a romantic relationship and risk potentially catching a deadly virus and spreading it to my loved ones, I’ll keep my reason(s) simple. Let’s start with the fact that I am high maintenance.

There’s so much work that goes into my mind, body, and heart, and every day I try to do better. Every day I try to treat myself better. Whether it’s through something as simple as a face mask, an hour spent at the gym, buying myself flowers for the week, cooking myself an extravagant meal, or just taking time to reflect, decompress, and center myself again, there is a lot to unpack and a lot to maintain. Finding a man is not a priority for me. I am high maintenance but I can’t stress enough that I am the one constantly sealing the cracks and I am the one making all the necessary upgrades and repairs. I am the one putting in the work, no one else. I am the one who puts the hours, weeks, months, and years into my growing investment. It used to bother me when people, both men and surprisingly, women, accused me of being high maintenance because they would frame it as a flaw or a red flag. But now when I hear someone say I’m high maintenance, I smile and laugh and take it as a compliment. I’ve reached a point in my life that I care so much about myself that no one has been able to compete with that kind of love and I won’t settle for anything less.

I’m single because for the first time in over a decade I’ve learned to respect myself enough to not just refuse being treated poorly but walking away from people who only agree to put in the bare minimum.

I’m single because I’m not afraid to leave someone who is unsure about me, even if I deeply love them and it pains me to walk away.

I’m single because I refuse to settle because I haven’t found something better yet. I also will not stay with someone who just settles for me. I will not stay in a relationship because it is convenient for either party involved.

I’m single because I’m not actively trying to meet someone. Granted, I don’t expect Michael Fassbender to just show up at my door with a bag of tacos and whisk me off my feet but I’m not going to force anything and believe things fall into place on their own when they’re meant to. I’m not a traditionalist by any means and I’ve heard many dating app success stories but they’re just not for me and I don’t want to waste my time on something that doesn’t bring me joy.

I’m single because I’m not desperate. I’m not on someone else’s timeline. I don’t have a set date or agenda to find someone, get married, have kids, buy a home, etc. I have no one to please and nothing to prove.

I’m single because there’s so much more to life than finding a partner to share moments with. Don’t get me wrong, I was in a relationship for seven years and to this day I cherish the many memories I built with my partner at the time, but since our breakup, I’ve created so many new memories by traveling alone and I wouldn’t trade those for the world. I can’t begin to express how important and illuminating it is to safely travel solo and experience adventures on your own.

I’m single because I spent my twenties being a serial monogamist and never took the time to get to know myself first. Young and naive I would be a sponge and absorb my partners’ likes, dislikes, listen to their favorite bands, hang out with their friends, pick up their hobbies and learn everything I could about them while forgetting about myself.

I’m single because at the end of the day if I grow old and die a spinster because I didn’t find a man to love me as much or more than I love myself, I am perfectly happy and content with that.

So the next time someone is so flabbergasted and tells me I’m too pretty to be single, or wonders how someone who is such a culinary genius in the kitchen has so much trouble finding a man, I might tell them that it’s none of their damn business or I may just send them a link to this article because I’m done having to explain myself any further.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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Can you just be happy for me?

I remember there was a time in my twenties where I had a handful of close girlfriends who would blow up my phone anytime there was a Facebook or Instagram engagement announcement. 

“Oh my god, did you see that Susan is engaged?”

“How long has Karen even known him? I bet she’s pregnant.”

“Chad is seriously going to marry his highschool sweetheart? I just threw up in my mouth.”

I wasn’t just on the receiving end of these texts though. I’m not proud but I’m most certainly guilty of demanding answers from my anonymous group of single ladies on how a massive bitch like Becky landed a CFO of a tech start-up and through some type of witchcraft sentenced him to twenty-five to life. Like I said, I’m not proud. Still genuinely curious though. You’d understand if you knew Becky. 

It’s not that we weren’t genuinely happy for our friends. It was just our way of coping with the fact that our time hadn’t come yet. Were we a little bitter? Sure. Did we talk shit to feel better? You bet. But were we genuinely thrilled for them and just sulking in our own despair? One hundred percent. We weren’t annoyed at the thought of marriage or finding someone; we were just annoyed that we dated losers who never saw our potential. 

In fact, we were so into the fantasy of happily ever-after that we planned on visiting bridal shops to try on dresses and pitch ourselves as sisters who got engaged at the same time. To brothers. Who wouldn’t believe that? Why did we want to embrace the life of con artists? For me, it was mostly the free champagne, but deep down I also wanted to know what it felt like to squeeze into a beautiful ivory gown. 

As I type this I know very well that if I could go back in time to see that twenty-something year-old girl trying on that Melissa Sweet linear lace dress I would grab the champagne out of her hand and throw it in her face yelling, “Wake up, lady!” But that would just be a waste of good champagne so I’d likely drink the champagne then slap her in the face. It doesn’t count as assault if you’re beating yourself up, right? Still, there was something magical about being young and ignorant and I can’t deny how much joy it brought me at the time even though I’d eventually learn that I was in a relationship with a man who would never marry me.

Since then my small group of single social media fiends* has become increasingly smaller as they eventually found a partner to spend the rest of their lives with. I thought at some point it might get lonely out here for a single girl with no one to banter with but surprisingly once I reached my thirties I stopped caring. And I’m not just saying that. I really don’t care. It’s part of life and completely inevitable that people you know will get engaged, married, and eventually have babies. I can honestly say I am truly happy for them but I’m not entirely sure they’re happy for me. 

Almost immediately following my break-up, friends and family began whoring out my resume (I look great on paper) to potential contenders I had never even met. 

“I want to introduce you to one of my husband’s closest friends!”

“I have the perfect guy for you.”

“We should set you up on Bumble! Maybe Tinder.”

This left me completely flabbergasted. I had just exited a seven year relationship and everyone and their mother, literally, was on the hunt to find me another match. It felt like my status as a single woman was being treated like some kind of illness and I was to be put into quarantine until I found the right medication to put me back on my feet. Until I found the right man to complete me.

It’s been over a year since my break-up now and with the exception of one absolutely deplorable date, I haven’t invested any of my time into getting to know anyone. I’ve made a lot of new friends whose company I thoroughly enjoy but I haven’t pursued anything romantic. A few weeks ago during a conversation with a friend I had mentioned that I’m not dating and he looked at me like I was crazy. 

“Why not,” he asked.

I realized in that moment how content I was with the way things were.

I had been dating since I was in high school and realized that while I might not have always been in a relationship, I usually didn’t go longer than six months without a guy in the picture. I had a high school boyfriend, a college boyfriend, a work boyfriend, and an adult boyfriend. In between boyfriends there was always someone I was talking to, going out for drinks or dinner with, or trying to pursue a relationship with before it blew up in my face. I was a complete serial monogamist. I always craved a companion. At that very moment I realized for the first time in my life I no longer did.

I’ve been single for a year and some change now and in that time I’ve gotten to know myself better than anyone else. I’ve gone from dining alone to traveling solo and pursuing opportunities I otherwise wouldn’t if I was attached to someone. In short, I’ve been having a lot of fun lately. The house can be a little too quiet at times and everytime the plane leaves the ground I almost still expect someone to grasp my hand tight enough to shake the initial jitters I have when flying, but with the exception of some habitual feelings, which will eventually fade completely, I’m very happy and that should be enough for all inquiring minds. 

For me, it’s more than enough.

So…can you just be happy for me?

*not a typo but I was fairly entertained to notice that the the only difference between a friend and a fiend is the letter “r.”

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Happy New Year, Girl

I had the most productive day yesterday. 

I woke up at 4:30 in the morning completely (and surprisingly) well-rested from a good night’s sleep. At 5:30 am I got the beating of my life at the gym after two weeks off but couldn’t stop humming to “Hurt So Good” by John Mellencamp while catching my breath after my workout, completely doused in sweat. 

I came home, showered, poured myself a cup of green tea and learned Japanese for 15 minutes, courtesy of my recently downloaded Duolingo app. At 9:00 am I headed to the Korean spa for an hour long scrub and oil massage – with a complimentary mini facial I might add. If you’ve never been to a Korean spa, you need to book an appointment and experience this magic at least once in your life. 

I wanted to start off the first full week of January with a fresh start and I couldn’t think of a better way than to literally scrub the remnants of 2019 off my body to reveal a glowing new canvas itching to create a new portrait. 

If you’ve had a body scrub before in a Western spa, then you were likely in your swimwear or bottoms, exposing as much as you were comfortable with, rubbed down with some green tea coffee mix promising to exfoliate your skin, then wrapped up looking like someone’s Thanksgiving leftovers. You poor little snack.

Let me tell you that the Korean spa is a much different experience. You strip down to your birthday suit, hang out in the spa or sauna until your fingers and toes look like raisins, then a tiny Korean woman in black lace underwear (scandalous, right?) and the strength of a bodybuilder (no joke) takes you into a private room where she literally scrubs off your dead skin with nothing but what feels like a sandpaper loofah. If you’re brave enough to look, you’ll notice your arms and legs look like someone freshly grated parmesan cheese on them and wonder how you’ve been carrying around this much dead skin. You feel disgusted yet refreshed at the same time, if you can get over the anxiety that comes with baring it all for a stranger. In recent months, the only other person I’ve been that intimate with is my waxing lady and we’ve been together for over a decade. That woman has seen parts of me that I know none of my ex’s have.

I got sidetracked.

After the Korean spa I went on a grocery run and came home to meal prep for the week. This week’s menu includes Beyond Meat cheeseburgers (I’m not vegan or vegetarian but these are seriously delicious), Alaskan salmon kale and spinach salad, and chicken breast with mixed vegetables. In an effort to really be an overachiever and kick-start this “New Year New Me” bullshit, I even cleared the entire Whole Foods selection of celery juice to start each morning with. 

In the afternoon I headed to the bank then cut a check to pay my entire year’s rent. That’s right; the entire year. I’m really big on saving and try to be smart with my money so if I can avoid one stress this year I will absolutely cut bills off my list. I guess my dream Camaro will have to wait.

Having had a busy but productive day, I closed the evening by reading. I turned off my phone, avoided Netflix, and continued to read “Girl, Wash Your Face,” by Rachel Hollis which I had started on the first of the month. One of my many goals this year was to start reading more so I decided to commit to reading one book a month. It’s not much considering most can put a good book down within a week, but it’s a realistic goal and one that works for me. I used to read obsessively before college but as I took on more classes, accepted internships, and got more and more job offers, I fell out of my passion.

I don’t have any New Year’s resolutions but I certainly have realistic goals that I’ve set for the year that prioritize my health and happiness. Today, I woke up at 4:30 again to go to the gym, sorer than I was yesterday. I must have hit the snooze button 8 times this morning and thought of every reason why I didn’t have to go but then realized that if I didn’t show up I was flaking on myself. Put it into perspective; if you say you’re going to commit to something and decide you’d rather Netflix and order pizza, it’s basically the equivalent of a friend making plans with you and flaking last minute. I’ve been that friend and I’ve had friends flake on me multiple times. It’s the worst. So why flake on yourself? Don’t you deserve better? I think you do. And I do too.

I’m not saying we don’t deserve a rest day every once and awhile. Hell, I’m sitting on the couch as a type this with a glass of wine beside me. And yes, just a glass this time. It is only Tuesday after all. But I’m having that glass of wine knowing I’ve been productive as fuck and I’m only celebrating how good that feels.

So cheers to the New Year and cheers to feeling good. 2019 was an icky year and I finally got sick and tired of feeling so beat down. Looking back on it though, as cliche as it sounds, it really was a blessing, hurting in the same way growing pains do. Hurting in the same way Monday’s squats are feeling right about now. But after the pain comes the muscle and with the muscle comes strength. 

Come at me 2020. For better or worse, this is going to be my year.

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69

I have 69 unread Hinge notifications.

How’s my love life going, you ask? Well, my dating app is getting more action than I am.

Another notification just came in. We’re now at 70 unread Hinge notifications and I’m honestly just annoyed that the universe couldn’t even grant me a full sixty seconds of self deprecation to lighten the mood. I delete the new notification to keep it at 69 and giggle like a frat boy who has had too many jello shots. I suppose I should be flattered but I have no intention of opening any of these notifications. Why did I even download this app?

I can’t actually trust that these apps were built for people to meet and date. I’ve been on and off these platforms for months, embracing the validation I receive from random strangers then deleting the app out of frustration only to find myself back in a few weeks. I think platforms like Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge are just another social media outlet and a lazy opportunity to double-tap instead of building a genuine connection with someone. More importantly, I have a theory that if a guy is matched with you, he uses the platform solely for the purpose of jerking off to your photos without any intent to message you. 

Prove me wrong.

Nearly every guy I’ve matched with will not message me when I invite him to chat. And why is that?

They’re totally only there to jerk off to photos. 

Except Kyle. Kyle was not only a beautiful man who matched with me but maybe one out of twenty to message me when I decided to connect with him. Our romance was short lived though when he shared that he was currently in Hawaii and I immediately replied with “Hope you get some D!” 

I’m saddened to report that he did not message me back after that and while I was strictly talking about Vitamin D, I guess I blew that one. No pun intended. 

It’s probably not Hinge’s fault that I’m having no luck with the app but my perspective alone makes me more certain that most aren’t there to actually date. I know I’m not. 

And now I wonder, ‘Am I here to jerk off to photos?’

I guess I’ll have to disappoint the family once again during the holidays when I show up without a date. I do find it somewhat refreshing (while mildly depressing) that the conversation has transitioned in the following years as such:

Holidays with my boyfriend:

“When are you two finally going to get married and have kids?”

Last holiday, without a boyfriend:

“So are you dating?”

This year, pre-holiday, which is getting me super hyped for the actual dinner conversations ahead:

“Honey, I think maybe you should start thinking about freezing your eggs.”

I think it’s safe to say that my family has officially given up on me and I am a lost cause by society’s standards. The older I get the more I realize I don’t want children so the thought of selling my eggs is much more appealing at this point rather than freezing them, taking the money, and moving to Belize to live my best life.

But then my anxiety kicks in and I fast forward to my fifties where I’m minding my own business, walking down the street listening to Lizzo, who I completely and fully expect to still be killing it,  when a twenty-something-year-old with my eyes and bone structure walks by me and I immediately wonder, “Oh my God, is that my child?!”

There are far too many Lifetime movies and shows about kids looking for their egg and sperm donors and that is just a chance that I cannot take. For that reason, I’m out. And so is my dream of living in sunny Belize.

And now I wonder if Kyle is still in Hawaii and if he ever did get that D. 

I’ll be deleting this app again tonight. 

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Party for One

Last night marked exactly one year since I broke up with my boyfriend of seven years.

As I lay dying on the floor of the gym after what might have been the most painful workout of my life, my trainer asked what my plans were later that evening.

“Well, it’s my anniversary,” spilled out of my mouth like verbal diarrhea. 

He stared at me confused, knowing very well that I was single.

“So, I think I’ll stop by Whole Foods and pick up some wine, dessert, and some flowers,” I continued.

You ever have one of those out of body experiences where you can see and hear yourself doing something and you’re in the background whispering “cut it out” to yourself but the real you in real time just keeps going knowing very well that you’re oversharing? Generally alcohol is involved but I’m starting to realize endorphins may have the same effect on me. Anyone else?

“People do that?” he asked even more confused.

“I do,” I replied with such confidence like I had done it before, several times. I hadn’t. 

But then as I walked to my car like a baby gazelle fresh out of the womb (squats, am I right?) I started to question whether to just go home. Did I need any of these things? I honestly probably could have saved the money. In the seven seconds it took me to walk from the gym to my car I must have come up with a dozen reasons why I didn’t have to do any of these things until that tiny little voice in the back of my head stopped me dead in my tracks. 

Why wouldn’t I treat myself? Why shouldn’t I celebrate being single? It seemed so hypocritical that I put so much weight and importance on every passing year where my ex and I managed not to kill each other but I questioned whether I should celebrate being the happiest I’ve ever been in my own company. Typing and reading this outloud makes that hesitation I felt sound so silly. 

So, I’m happy to share that I did in fact go to Whole Foods, picked up a bottle of malbec, a couple bundles of tulips, and one red velvet cupcake. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider purchasing one of their party-sized fruit cakes but reminded myself not to get carried away. After all, I wasn’t going to let all of those squats go to waste.

At one point I lit a candle to blow out like it was my birthday and somewhere in the ridiculousness of all of this I just started to laugh. It was stupid and it was cheesy and it made me so happy that I wouldn’t have changed a thing. And in a way, it was almost like a birthday or a rebirth of some kind. Having been in a relationship for longer than most of my friend’s marriages I had forgotten what it was like to be single and what I was like single.

I don’t think it’s a bad thing to pick up the same tastes in music, food, mannerisms, etc. when in a relationship, especially one so long; I think that’s totally normal. But somewhere in all those years I think I forgot who I was and lost bits of myself. I’m not sure I’ll get those pieces back because I’m not the same person I was back then and I’m not the same person I was in that relationship. I’m in an entirely new decade of my life and I’m pretty excited to get to know this new woman. 

This isn’t a platform for me to bash on marriage or anyone looking to start a family. This is simply just the recognition that everyone around me is married and starting families. Everyone but me. And for the first time in my life I don’t feel the pressure to do the same. If you’ve found love and your children have changed your life, that is amazing and wonderful. I’m just saying I have not, and that is also amazing and wonderful. 

For so many years I measured my value and importance on my relationship status and for the first time in my life I feel not only content with being single but grateful that I could remove myself from a place that felt so comfortable to start prioritizing myself, my wants, and my needs.

There are so many blogs and platforms that celebrate engagements, marriage, and starting a family and if you’re celebrating any of those things, congratulations, but this blog is probably not for you. 

But if you’re single, relate to every self destructive millennial meme on Instagram, and are trying to find yourself in the bottom of a wine bottle, well, buckle up bitch; you’re in for one hell of a ride.

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