On Still Being Single

never thought I would still be single at age 31. When, as a little girl and a teenager, I imagined my future, I sort of skipped over the college and post-college years, and always fast-forwarded to sometime in my mid-30s, when I would undoubtedly be blissfully married with a small brood of children, whom I lovingly but sternly disciplined while I traded cookie recipes and gossiped with other moms about the latest goings-on in our close-knit, homogenous community. I would have a dashing husband, worthy of a Tiger Beat magazine cover (this was the '80s, after all), who would adore me and be the perfect father, and whom I would adore right back, in spite of his foibles. I grew up believing that that was my ultimate goal and purpose, and fully expected the perfect guy to come along at a relatively young age (mid-college sounded good), whisk me off my feet, and save me from the horrors of having to actually plan my life in the real world.

The irony of this was, I was so socially awkward when I was growing up--around boys and girls, but especially around boys--that I gave all boys a very wide berth, making it rather hard for any of them to approach me with an offer of marriage. Or even ask me to dance. I was master of the "admire from afar" school of relationships, figuring that conversation would just come naturally with the right guy. Hey, it worked for Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella (who didn't even have a real conversation with her prince before he proposed, as you will recall), why not for me?

I'm happy to report that I outgrew my adolescent awkwardness several years ago--though I'll never be the femme fatale figure who uses her looks and sexuality to get out of traffic tickets and score back--stage passes at concerts. That said, I now have many male friends, I go on dates, I can hold my own in a group of testosterone-injected suits at a business function, and I have no problem at a party talking to the guy I would have been way too intimidated to even make eye contact with at age 15. I've made a lot of progress.

Yet still, I yearn. I yearn to be in-love, to be part of a unit, to wake up every morning next to someone with mussed-up hair and bad breath, who loves me just as much as I love him, even when my weird relatives come stay with us for a week, even when I'm a basket case because I don't know where my career is going, even when I burn the lasagna or nag him to fix the leaky toilet. What good is all this progress if I'm still alone on a Friday night, watching "Bridget Jones's Diary" for the 400th time?

I remember walking along the Tidal Basin in Washington, DC, one spring when I was 16. The cherry trees were fluffy with pink and white blossoms, cascading onto the grass and sidewalks, nestling themselves in people's hair. Everywhere I looked, I saw couples: walking hand-in-hand, leaning against the railing arm-in-arm watching the paddle boats on the water, stopping under a bushy bough to steal a kiss and cuddle. I wished I were there with someone too, doing those things, enjoying the romance of those blossoms.

When I was a freshman in college I met many single women who were working or in grad school. They all seemed soooo old to me--though of course they were probably not even 30 yet. I remember thinking how sad it was that they were still single, at that age. I prayed that the same tragedy wouldn't befall me.

Many years later, in my mid-20s, I was on an airplane bound for Europe with some friends. We spread out in the sparsely occupied cabin so we could each have a row to ourselves to sleep in going over the Atlantic. Just when everyone was falling asleep, one of the boys stole up to the row of one of the girls. Instead of using separate rows each, they curled up together and slept soundly. I wondered, then, when it would be my turn to snuggle on the plane and fall asleep with the person I cared for. Why was I always the one alone, in a sea of couples?

Most of my close friends now are married, many have children. I feel increasingly an anomaly and out-of-place among my own age group. I feel like I'm behind somehow, like I'm on the short bus of relationships. What good does all this progress do me if I'm still unlucky in love? Even my younger brother and sister are married with children (the twits!). I feel conspicuously solo out in public, left out of a club because I don't have the secret password. This is true even when I'm clearly not the only person without a partner. Somehow I don't think about the conspicuousness of the other single people, nor do I imagine that they're also longing for someone to love. I don't imagine their despair when yet another potential says "No thanks," or when they learn that the person they've really been hitting it off with for three weeks has a fiancée in another state.

This desire for a mate has become such a pre-occupation that it permeates every social interaction. A few weeks ago, my sister-in-law told me she'd met some nice clients at work that day, all of them men. Were they single, I wanted to know. "Oh I don't know," she answered dismissively. "I've been married for so long, I don't even check for a wedding ring anymore." NOT CHECK FOR A WEDDING RING?? What else did she think her eyes were there for? Didn't she know how important it was to ascertain this essential information immediately upon meeting someone? I was crestfallen to think that I may have missed out on meeting my one true love because she hadn't thought to check her clients' ring fingers.

I've always said that I'd rather be single forever than settle for someone who wouldn't make me truly happy. In spite of my longing, I still feel that way. But in the meantime, while I'm waiting for THAT GUY to come along, couldn't I have an interim boyfriend, someone who wasn't a perfect match but would at least be a fun distraction for awhile? You know, someone to do things with, accompany me to work social functions, smooch a little on the sofa after dinner at my place. Just so I could feel normal for once, not like a relationship-challenged outcast. Is that too much to ask of the universe?

I had an appalling realization about my single status the other day. Like most single women, I had been in the habit of frequently complaining about the obtuseness, selfishness and shallowness of the male population, evidenced very obviously by the fact that none of them wants to date me. On the day in question, I was in full complaining mode when, mid-whine, I realized that that actually isn't true anymore: some of them do want to date me; I just don't always want to date them back. I don't count in the "wants to date me category" the guys asking me out who are the product of a union of first cousins, or who take my order at Burger King, or who still live with their parents in a bedroom wallpapered with posters of the cast of Star Trek. I'm talking about intelligent, successful guys, with a sense of humor, who have good hygiene and know how to read, who will probably be excellent husbands and fathers. Most of the time they don't look like George Clooney, but neither are they entirely unfortunate-looking. For whatever reason, I just don't feel any sparkage when we're together. I overlook all manner of Seinfeldian complaints in an effort to make things last beyond the third date--or, in the case of the internet dating, to make it to the first--but, in the end, I must concede that it just isn't going to happen. This annoying circumstance not only leaves me still single, but also takes away the small bit of haughty satisfaction I used to derive from blaming all my relationship woes on the other sex. Drat!

Last night I was on another airplane, alone as usual, watching the couple across the aisle from me snuggle up together and snooze during the long flight. I admit I felt a little bitter. I know I will get married someday, but that doesn't make the process of looking for the right person any more bearable. But then I think that maybe I need to progress a little further in my personal growth before I'm ready to buy a house in the suburbs with that Tiger Beat heartthrob. Or maybe that heartthrob needs to progress a little more before he's ready to meet me.

--Claire Roberts