I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want.
Mostly I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want because someone asked me what I want. Mostly up till then I was just trying to go to work and keep up with my hand-washables. I hadn’t stopped to consider. And when I got asked, I was all, hunh. I wonder what I want.
This summer I traipsed to a new therapist, one of 87 in a line of the many many therapists I’ve seen in this lifetime, and I told her how I’d been married, but that being married annoyed me.
Then I told her that a year after my husband left I met a man and fell stupidly in love, stupid stupid stupid gaze-at-him in love, but he was not the marrying kind and that broke my heart so we broke up. Mostly. Sort of. I told her how he keeps coming around even though he doesn’t want to commit. That it’s been 7 years now of breaking up and him coming back, like a clog in your drain.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked. “Being married annoyed you, but being with someone who didn’t want to get married was unfulfilling, too.”
“Also, it sounds kind of like you really like living alone. Do you?”
Oh my god, yes. I adore living alone. I told her how much I enjoy walking into an empty house, if you count 16 other legs there as “empty.”
Not including fleas.
If you count 4,974 legs there as “empty.”
“Not everyone does, you know,” she said. “Not everyone likes living alone.”
God, really? I consider it one of my luxuries, like other women might consider a bath and an Almond Roca. I adore living alone. Have I said that yet?
But I don’t know if I want to be relationship-less. However, I’ve also put in like 3% effort into finding another person this year. I sometimes vaguely turned on my dating profile here and there. Barely answered anyone because they were always the type who’d wear sunglasses on their baseball cap.
And I’ve never done that before. Since 8th grade I’ve pretty much dedicated myself full time to finding a boyfriend and then when my commitment light came on in my late 20s, to finding a husband.
Then when I was single again in my mid-40s, I went back to trying to find a boyfriend.
Now the whole idea of a relationship sounds like too much work. Do you have any idea how many books there are to read? Not to mention we’re in some sort of creative peak with TV shows, although Dear TV Maker People: Stop fucking thinking 8 episodes are a season. Fuck you. Fuck you totally. For sure. (That was only funny if you loved Valley Girl.)
Books never sext another woman.
TV shows don’t get annoyed because you don’t want to go on a hike.
My whole life, asshole-y smug types who’ve been married since 7th grade have always told me, You have to be happy just being alone. Then they go home to their 14 kids.
So, okay, I did it. I got happy being alone. Maybe a little too happy. I don’t feel lonely at all. If anything, I’ve got too many people wanting me to actually leave the house and do things, when most of the time I’m content to be home with the 4,974 legs.
But what if I turn into some sort of weird loner with fleas? What if I’m Lola the Showgirl 30 years later looking for Tony?
Is anyone else feeling the same way? Are you feelin’, feelin’ that way too? Or am I just, am I just a fool?