My phone tweedled at me the other day. It attempts to communicate with me pretty regularly, using a variety of vocalizations; but I’ve yet to decipher its many chirps, pings and boops. For all I know, it could be rutting season and the phone is trying to attract a mate.
I didn’t recognize the little bing-bong as one of the regular sounds that mean nothing to me, and when I looked at the phone’s screen it simply read “22.” I thought it was either a default system message or something I’d added under the assumption that, unlike every password and PIN I set, I wouldn’t immediately forget what “22” signified.
After some unsuccessful brain wracking, I opened the event. It turns out that last week would have been my 22nd anniversary with my Ex. Obviously I must have turned on some setting that enables the calendar to be a bit of a dick sometimes. But that’s something I should have realized considering that my previous phone liked to remind me when my grandma had a birthday coming up … a bitter-sweet occurrence because on the one hand my grandma is dead, but on the other, I didn’t have to worry about buying a gift for her.
I’m well past the post-divorce period that causes one to make a playlist of sad songs, put the list on repeat and then cry about still being so blue all the time. In fact, I don’t remember making a sad song list. I was fortunate that Cee Lo Green’s “Fuck You” was popular around that time and it became my anthem.
While the anniversary reminder didn’t send me running to put on some Adele or Amy Winehouse, it did make me realize that I’ve been single for five years and there’s no sign that my party of one status will be changing anytime soon. For the most part, I don’t care … I’m not one who wants or needs to have a girlfriend simply for the sake of having one. Couplehood only appeals to me if there’s someone in my sights I’m interested in.
Although I’ve always been fairly introverted and comfortable being alone, I do remember being more concerned with finding a girlfriend in my younger, more insecure years. At the time I reasoned that someone’s attraction to or love for me was proof that I was attractive and lovable. Today that’s no longer true, and I don’t have to depend on an outside opinion to know that I’m fucking adorable. Also, and I may have mentioned this before, dating now just sounds exhausting. Like deciding to go back to the gym to get in shape — the end result might be nice, but it was a lot easier in my twenties than it would be now.
It’s not that I don’t have any concerns about what will happen if my singlehood moves from long-term to permanent. For instance, I wonder about who will call the paramedics when I fall and break a hip, or lose a couple of fingers to my table saw because there’s no one to remind me that I have no business playing with power tools at my age.
Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me before my ovaries dried up and blew away, but having a kid or two would have really come in handy for just such situations. I guess I could always adopt one, but I’d still need someone to raise it until it’s old enough to take care of me. Then again, having kids is no guarantee that they’ll help me through my golden years. For example, my parents are under the impression that I’ll never put them in a nursing home. It’s kind of cute how gullible old people are.
There was a period not all too long ago when I consciously decided not to pursue dating because at my age it’s generally expected that one should have her shit somewhat together, and my shit was strewn all over the place. And it’s not so much that I was undateable — there’s a certain type of woman that loves the challenge of a fixer-upper like me. But I assume that in those situations I’d have to leave my shit scattered about to hold her interest, or be prepared for her to bail once she’d completed all the repairs. And I found neither of those options terribly attractive.
I suppose some would still consider me a bit of a project, being that I’m unemployed and often the most productive thing I do all day is turn on the television. In fact, I’ve been told that I watch too much t.v. … like that’s even possible. But I find that being poor and having the time to work on my blog and edit my movies and do my little animations, is staggeringly more satisfying than any “real” job I had during the previous fifteen years.
And that probably contributes greatly to my contentment with being single. I don’t feel the need to look beyond myself and my little handful of good friends to distract me from the train wreck that was once my life. I may not be as successful as I once was, but I am happy. And at this point, that’s a hell of a lot more valuable to me than a big paycheck.