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.”