Party of one

Editor's note: (I've always wanted to say that, even though I don't have an editor. Unless you count Tallulah, who likes to sit on the desk batting pens onto the floor and demanding I scratch her head. I wonder if Anna Wintour is this demanding?) I originally wrote parts of this a few years ago for another project. A few things have changed (the latitude and longitude of my ass, my unconditional love for George Clooney), but much of it still holds true.

"Why are you single?"

I’ve been asked that question more than a few times over the years. It used to make me bristle, seeming so judgy about my worthiness as a girlfriend. Now, I don’t mind it so much. Why the hell am I single?

My answer has always been that I’m better off alone. I know a few men who'd agree, and it's always seemed an easier answer than “guys don’t ask me out”. Which is true, but sounds a little pathetic. I’ve never been the girl guys approach, unless it’s to find out if my friend is single. Or to see if I'd like to switch cell phone plans. But I no longer know if I am better off as a solo act. I've cultivated this “I’m a single girl, you coupled-up suckers” image, when really I’d like to be in love. Not in a creepy, "I already have a wedding dress in my closet" way, but in a "reason to shave my legs every single day" way. I’d like to have a side of the bed instead of the middle. And I'd like to take advantage of the large pizza offers I get in my mailbox without having to justify the leftovers. Or eating an entire large pizza in one sitting.

The thing is, I think I make an excellent girlfriend. I’m not too clingy; I like having time to myself. It sometimes borders on the anti-social, truthfully, which kind of makes me wonder if the Unabomber and I would hit it off. I’m not a princess; I don’t expect a man to provide for me. I expect a man to get the lids off jars. I’m thoughtful, I give great gifts, I'm pretty open minded around the bedroom. I’m cute, possibly even attractive, when well-rested, moisturized and properly hydrated. I worry that baby's got a little too much back, but I've honestly never come close to hearing the words "you know what I really like? A bony ass". Besides, I've spent a fair bit of time at Home Depot lately (decorating as a subsitute for sex), and dimmers are surprisingly easy to install.

So what’s the problem? For starters, I'm gun shy. The reasons for this are maudlin and tragic and worthy of their own post. For now, suffice it to say that commitment phobes, cheaters, players and the emotionally comatose are kinda my thing. When it comes to accumulating tools, I'm second only to Bob Vila. Really, when I think about it, I'm sure only geography and divine intervention have kept me from waking up next to John Mayer by now. Mostly though, I don’t meet anyone. Admittedly, I don't give off "single and looking" vibes, likely because I just can't stomach all the first date nonsense where I'm supposed to dumb it down and make inane small talk and act like he's the funniest person ever and just So Damn Fascinating. No one is that fascinating when they're nervous and wondering if their deodorant has betrayed them and if that big word they just used to try and impress was actually the word they meant to use. Certainly not me. Besides, you try twirling your hair coyly when it's two inches long.

Friends ask “Wouldn’t you like to be in a relationship?” That’s like asking “Wouldn’t you like to win the Best Original Screenplay Oscar?” Sure, except I’ve never even read a screenplay, let alone written one. I'm pretty sure you have to at least make the attempt. Which reminds me - I’d love to think the screenplay of my romantic future would be akin to "Amelie"; peppered with cute outfits and well-travelled gnomes. Seems optimistic, given the screenplay of my romantic past can best be described as "He's Just Not That Into You" meets "Amityville Horror", only without the dead flies.

Sometimes, I wish I could date just for the sake of dating, but I’m not cut out for it. I think I'm too sensitive. I admire women who blithely say there are always more fish in the sea. I’m more like Santiago when it comes to dating. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and that, thus far, has been my downfall. Sometimes, I wish I’d spent more time going sleeveless. But then I remember I hate my upper arms.

I’ve had my heart broken a few times (does it count as once or twice if it's by the same guy?), maimed a time or two, manhandled occasionally. And when I was younger, that made me incredibly skittish. Now, I think it makes me a charter member of a not-very exclusive club. But I’m older, hopefully wiser, and don’t have the wide-eyed expectations that plague the 20 something crowd. I’m not likely to jump in with both feet, but life’s too short to not at least stick your toes in. Besides, I have incredibly cute toes. I just feel like I’m wasting a great time in my life.

I don't want the impossible. I want someone with humour and integrity, style and substance. Unless style for you means Ed Hardy. An artistic side (though if your band is just waiting for their one big break, perhaps not). And really broad shoulders. Someone who's curious about the world. I’d like to be having more regular sex. Or slightly irregular, if that’s your thing. And I’d like to not have only two choices when opening wine - down the hatch or down the drain. But mostly, I’d like someone to lean on. Metaphorically; I'm somewhat renowned for my anti-spooning stance.

Don’t get me wrong - I really like my life. I have a job I really enjoy most days, a not too overbearing family, a great house, and cooking skills that extend beyond finding a take-out menu. I have fantastic, funny, brilliant friends who would slay a dragon for me, should we find ourselves in an Arthurian legend. And they think I’m the cat’s pajamas. So if quality people think I’m quality people, why am I single, while many completely vapid women need to fend ‘em off with a stick? Is vapid the new sexy? Actually, never mind. I think Jersey Shore just answered that question. I've had a few guys tell me, years later, they didn’t realize what a catch I was. Is it too much to ask for someone to figure that out in the present tense?

By the way, for the broad-shouldered, single men between 36-45 who got the Hemingway reference, marry me.