I don’t think a (relatively) sane, somewhat together thirty-something woman is meant to be single. I just don’t. It seems to fly in the face of mother nature, and logic, and chaos theory. Doesn’t it?
I do not know what to do with my raging hormones. I just know that I cannot eat any more pizza, I am not willing to pick up some questionable one-night stand on Craigslist, and I am beyond bored with my vibrator.
I’m not saying I don’t have a life because I don’t have a man. I am saying that I do have a life, and I miss having a man to share it with. I miss the sizzle and verve of spending Sunday afternoons with a straight man who looks me squarely in the eye with a gleam in his while taking my hand in his with a plan to distract me from whatever it is I’m doing.
This celibate-not-by-choice lifestyle is making me brittle inside. I’m afraid joking about having a piece of coal where my heart should be is becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.
What I am grateful for is that I do not have to humor anyone, or account for my comings and goings, or … or… or…
Okay, okay… Uncle.
Yes. Yes, dammit. Yes, if there is a Santa Claus out there or some fairy Godmother, then yes! I’d like to humor the right guy, and have him be an integral part of my comings and goings. And for once in my life, I would like it to be easy, and for the whole relationship to be cut from that mystical, magical cloth of “we met and it was like rolling down a hill – everything just kinda fell into place naturally.”
In a city of two million, he has to exist.