It’s some weird stuff. Really.
I spend a good amount of time writing and complaining about dating. Oh, you didn’t notice? You must be new. But, I had a very joyful realization just now.
Because I’m single, I can stand in my living room at 3 o’clock in the afternoon on a Saturday and belt out Leonard Cohen and no one is there to think anything of it. I will celebrate my own performance. You can bet on that.
I realized that an untethered existence affords me the ability to live life according to my own rules.
My rules are very loose when it comes to what is acceptable behavior for me as a single, middle-aged woman.
And you know what? I don’t care. You know who is going to judge me? Not a damn soul.
Before you think this is going to go down some torrid path of tales of indulgence and hedonism, I will stop you right there. I am no trollop. When I say loosely acceptable, I mean that stuff gets weird. In a completely dorky, Liz Lemon kind of way. In a way that only people who live alone for a while later in life understand.
For example, I clean the house to records (yes, records) of old Broadway musicals. My house is not clean until I have run old of lemon-scented Pledge and my voice is hoarse from playing both Tevya AND Yente. It’s rough work. Don't even get me started on rock operas and any show that ends with a full fan-kick finish. I'm going to go there, too,
When going out, I can stay as long as I want wherever I go. I always let one person know I’m leaving, you know, in case of abduction by creepy people or aliens. But, I have become the master of the Irish Goodbye. I will go out with friends and, by the time they realize I’m gone, I’m tucked into bed. I win, sucka!
I eat whatever I want, whenever I want. The frequency with which I eat breakfast for dinner is almost shameful. Yet, strangely, I feel no shame. No one should feel ashamed of bacon.
I talk on my dog’s behalf in an accent that is a weird cross between Boris from Boris and Natasha and Agador from The Birdcage. She gets me. It’s okay.
The empty side of the bed is actually an incredibly handy storage space! As I’m typing this, next to me includes: two books, a pair of glasses, sheet music, a nail file, a highlighter, two bobby pins and a bottle of water. I’m not a slob. I’m actually quite tidy. Convenience is just important to me. I could need any of these items at any time.
I’ll practice doing a dramatic “smokey eye” makeup technique and come out of the bathroom looking like RuPaul got in a bar fight. This scares no one. Not even my Russian/Guatemalan Chihuahua. Ordinary humans may feel otherwise. Hence, why this is done is solitude.
After a glass too many of wine, I engage in-depth conversations about Flannery O’Connor. Maybe Walt Whitman. With myself. I think my ideas are incredibly poignant. It’s the wine talking.
You get the gist here.
It’s not a very glamorous life. But it’s mine and I am having one hell of a time.
I also have to admit that I went back and reread this piece for editing purposes and I think I may have a deeper understanding of why I’m still single. Please feel free to make me feel better and share your single weirdness with me.
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