For the most part, being single is awesome.
I can sit on the couch with my cats on Friday night while watching Dateline and narrating my cats’ internal monologues and not feel ashamed. I don’t have to shave my legs all the time in the winter because nobody gets up close and personal with my business. I don’t have to have listen to anyone else make suggestions about what I should do with my time. I can do whatever I want, and I can do it whenever I want!*
(*when I’m not working or studying)
I don’t really mind it, most of the time. Besides, I work full time and I’m in an accelerated bachelor’s degree program, so my free time is slim and when I get some of it, I just want to watch hockey and exercise my option to not wear pants or a bra. I would like to exercise my freedom to be unsexy and I don’t want some bozo impeding on that right.
I mean, sure, I totally want to grow up and get married and have kids someday because I think I’m going to be a kick-ass mom and raise darling children (do not stomp on my fantasies), but the keyword is someday. I’m 27, for pete’s sake. I’m not dead! This is a marathon, not a sprint and I’m stumbling around the 13.1 mark. A 2011 Pew Research Center report said that the average age for marriage has never been higher for women than the present, at 26.5. In 1990 it was 23.9, and I really did not have my shit together at 24 to any discernible level at which any other human being could rely on me. I’m a late bloomer in the finishing-college-department, and I’d prefer to do that and maybe be on a path to greater self-sufficiency (i.e. being the CEO of A Super Awesome Company, Inc.) before I invite somebody else into this hot mess of a life. I’m sorry, but I am not going to be That Girl who moves her husband and kids into the parents’ house, short of some kind of financial catastrophe. Because that sounds awful.
But for some reason, it really burns up people around me that I’m single. Like, everyone has taken it as their personal mission to marry me off like it’s the 1800s. Now, I’m not saying “don’t introduce me to your super cute, financially-stable friends” because please, totally introduce me to your super cute, financially-stable friends. But I’m not a sad, lonely little spinster running out of productive biological years – yet. I’m a spinster with another ten good years on my biological clock, thank you very much.
Sure, most of my cousins have children and are way ahead of me in that race, but most of them are also well ahead of me in the Being Totally Miserable and Accomplishing Nothing race, too. I just spent nine days in Florida sipping rum by the pool, hanging out with Mickey Mouse, and watching hockey from the good seats, and it was awesome. I’m still enjoying being in my 20s, and I really, really hate to let down everyone living vicariously through me who thinks it’s time to make babies. No, bitches, it’s time to make the Dean’s List and sip beers over hockey.
In the immortal words of Cecily Strong’s Deirdre:
“I’m not here to make friends, I’m just here to do me.”