So tonight I went on what I think was a date. But the thing is I can’t be sure about what it was, because I don’t understand how dating works and what the fuck you’re supposed to do when you’re single. No really. The whole bit is totally foreign to me, or at least, I feel like it is. Maybe it isn’t. Fuck I don’t know.

All I can be sure of is that I had a good night with someone of the opposite gender, ate good food and laughed a lot, and I didn’t pay for dinner. Is that a date?

I think my problem is that I throw the word ‘date’ around a lot. Like whenever I take a friend to sushi or the movies, I call it a sushi date or a fillum date. Because I love my friends and why the fuck wouldn’t I want to date them? But the inherent problem with that, and indeed with pretty much every over-used word in the history of language, is that the proper meaning gets lost with each misuse. It’s like when I used to ironically use hashtags because I hated Twitter. But then I got one and the ironic hashtagging lost it’s irony. Good story, I know.
So, with that in mind, I struggle with the following: when does dinner with someone of your preferred gender-attraction become more than just eating at the same table with a friend? Who ordained that dinners with these people have to have some sort of follow through at the end? Why is there so much pressure on our society to not be alone?

The more I think about the way everyone’s end goal seems to be ‘to find The One’, the more frustrated I get with this expectation that all we’re here to do is grow up and get married. I mean, fuck, I’m definitely one of those people – a total romantic with big stupid rom-com ideals – but I am legitimately frustrated by the way I’m made to feel like I’m failing at life because I’m single, and not entirely unhappy with the status. I mean sure, cute cuddly flowery things are cute, and I wouldn’t say no to waking up and spying a scruffy, Sunday-morning-sleepy face on the other pillow (no hobo), but honestly, I currently get the whole fucking doona to myself. And that’s a nice time.

Yeah, some days I get worried about it. I’ll be 25 in a month, which is how old my mum was when she had me. And I used to want to have had a baby at 25 – although it was for silly mathematical reasons over anything else (when the baby was 25, I’d be 50, Mum would be 75. Shutup I’m strange.) I’ve obviously revised that sentiment, because I’m in no way ready or willing to start that phase of life yet. But some days I’ll catch myself thinking “What if you’re 29 and single? What if you’re 33 and single? What if you get to a point where babies aren’t an option and you’re still single?” And then I stop myself because holy FUCK shut up already with that paranoia nervosa, and also really pissed that I’ve been conditioned to worry about my fucking body clock tick tick ticking away. Jesus Christ, I’m only 25.

And then I go back to the beginning part of that lateral thought process and cringe. Because I hate the beginning. Not the beginning you have with someone that you’ve established you like more than just “Oh you’re nice, want to play Yahtzee or something?”, no I mean the beginning of the beginning. Where you don’t have an eye on anyone, but you feel like you should. Where you go about your day and people walk by and you wonder what it would be like to talk to them. The beginning where you have to establish a connection with someone you never ever have before. I honestly hate it. Because it’s that whole ‘what if’ scenario. What if that woman you’re standing next to at the bakery is the woman who’s supposed to have your baby? What if the man you made incredibly brief eye contact with as you crossed the street is the man who’s supposed to propose to you at a theme park one day? What if the person you’re supposed to spend your whole life wishing you’d never laid eyes on but love anyway is already part of your life?

It’s infuriating. Yes, thank you, I am vaguely impatient. But not for it to hurry up and be sorted, just to know. Some days I’d just like to know who it is. Or how many more people I have to meet and make a judgement call on before I get to him. I’d be more efficient that way. Like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada anything she’s ever been in.

So you’re not confused: I’m totally happy where things are now for me – job and uni are going so well I can scarcely believe it, and I’m living in a place with good people that I like. I’ve got good friends and loving family, and I don’t need anyone to come along and mess with ma belle vie. In fact, I don’t want them to. I think I’d just like to have some prep time, you know? Like “Oh by the way, in about three months, you’re going to get a phone call. Prepare yourself bitch, he’s arrived.” And then pow, I can just be like “All good homeslice, bags are packed and awaiting the next adventure.” Then I could incorporate another entity into the folds of my life. But god damn. Society could just back up off me about not needing that to happen now, you know? No, I’m not going out partying every weekend or jumping every dude I know, sorry world! You’ll just have to deal with the crazy pace I’m running at, better watch the fuck out.

I don’t know. It’s just really befuddling that there seems to be a time limit on being happy by yourself. Like “LOL soz gurlfrand, gotsta get you a mannnnnnnnnnnnnn now OR YOU’LL BE UNHAPPY FOREVER AND DIE ALONE.” Just. No. Stop it. I like my life. I don’t need your boyfriend issues getting up in my face and spoiling a good run. Or, to reference a god:

Back away, not today, disco lady!

Back away, not today, disco lady!

End rant, night world x


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