Last week, as Valentine’s Day approached, I was asked by an attached co-worker what exactly singles like me do on this lover’s holiday.
Cry, I said.
I was particularly proud of this somewhat witty response, which came quickly to my lips despite the fact that my inquisitive office mate had posed the question early in the morning and I was deeply engrossed in whatever article I was scrambling to finish before deadline.
I also knew it was what he, having long since passed the one-year mark in his current relationship, wanted to hear. Namely, that his situation was far superior to my lonely, solitary existence.
Having thus assuaged any doubts he may have had regarding his perceived superiority, I reflected that I was probably half speaking the truth. For I know there are a fair share of singles who do find the annual holiday a traumatic event. I might even have been one of them at some points in my life.
Thankfully, however, I can say (without the need to cross my fingers behind my back, I might add) that I fall firmly in the other half. That’s right; no tearing up for me on Valentine’s Day.
Which I think you will agree, given my propensity to cry on most occasions, speaks volumes.
While I may make a joke or two about my lack of a social life, my existence is far from solitary. In fact, I’d say I’m in a pretty good place in my life. I have a job I love, more than my fair share of friends and a family I wouldn’t trade for the world. (Well, with the exception of my brother Dennis, anyway. He’s definitely up for grabs.)
I shared this sentiment with another male colleague, this one unattached, a day or two after the initial query.
Well, you could find a date if you wanted one, he told me. It’s easy for a girl.
Not if she has standards, I replied.
And that’s really the problem, because when you’re single, people seem to forget that you may still actually have standards. They seem to automatically assume that if you are single, you must be desperate.
To this false assumption, they add a second – namely, that since you are so desperate, you’ll welcome their attempt to set you up with their second cousin twice removed, or that friend of their husband’s. You know, the toothless one with the horrible redneck nickname? Like Bubba. Or Jim Bob.
He’s “decent,” they’ll tell you. And he just got new tires for his truck.
Maybe in some circles, that may be a selling point. But not, I’m somewhat relieved to say, for me. (No offense.) A girl has to have her standards. And anyone who only carries a rating of “decent” is likely to fall short of that mark.
