One Single Year: Part I

Nearly a year after the fact, and I’m still trying to navigate my singlehood. I’d say it’s been an adventure, but that would imply that it’s been, on the whole, exciting. No—I’d compare it to a carnival ride. At times, you’re laughing at yourself for even getting on a machine operated by a fat, shirtless man with a pair of overalls and a fifth-grade education (before I go any further, let’s not take this metaphor too literally—I did not actually ride a shirtless, overall-wearing carnie with a fifth-grade education). Where was I? Oh yea. So it all seems like a fun, silly little thing to do for a minute, and then the novelty wears off and you realize that you’re on a five-ton death apparatus that could any minute drop a screw and rip you limb from limb.

Perhaps that was a bit dramatic. To be completely honest, it hasn’t been a bad year at all—just a clumsy one. Imagine, if you will, a meth-addicted Bambi on the frozen pond for the first time. That’s about how gracefully I’ve maneuvered through the singles scene.

My first mistake was gravitating toward older men—we’re talking ten years older or more. It’s really no surprise that this was my initial reaction: the chances of them being emotionally unavailable because they were busy recording another metal album are pretty slim. It wasn’t ten minutes into my first date that I realized maturity and emotional stability come with an unfortunate side effect: profound, unfathomable boredom. By the time the salads got there, I was ready to make out with the business end of a flamethrower.

Agony! Pure, unbridled agony. Halfway through dinner, I had rather successfully tuned him out, catching the occasional word—blah blah blah blah ‘Scotchgard’ blah blah blah ‘backgammon’ blah blah ‘Dockers’. Kill me. Of course tuning him out allowed me to eavesdrop on the two women at the neighboring table, who were apparently closely observing the atrocity unfolding at my table and giving us the John Madden/Al Michaels treatment. “They’re so obviously on a first date,” one said. “I know” replied the other, “and she’s a little young, don’t you think? Ka-ching.” Every molecule of my being wanted to turn around and shriek “LISTEN HERE, YOU HEINOUS BITCHES! I WOULD GIVE UP MY ENTIRE SAVINGS ACCOUNT AND EAT A LIVE BARKING CAVE SPIDER IF IT MEANT THIS WOULD BE OVER AND I COULD BE ON MY WAY HOME RIGHT NOW! BUT SOMEONE JUST ORDERED DESSERT WINE AND THE GODDAMNED FLAN AND NOW I’M STUCK HERE FOR ANOTHER GODDAMNED HOUR! OKAAAAAAAY?”

As I fled through the bathroom window--okay, as I politely allowed him to walk me to my car--I wondered: Is this it? Is this life as a single? And if so, where is the nearest nunnery and do you suppose they admit foul-mouthed winos who may or may not know what edible underwear actually tastes like?

And I was only getting started.

(to be continued...)