Tag Archives: single

I’m Fancy-Free, and Free for Anything Fancy

No yens. No yearnings. No strings. No connections.

I’m going through an interesting phase right now, during which I’m quite enjoying being unattached. I’m consciously uncoupled. Not seeking out love connections of any kind. It feels pretty good, and not in a Lets-Say-We’re-Happy-To-Cover-Up-Our-Deeply-Hidden-Fears-and-Keep-Our-Concerned-Relatives-Off-Guard sort of way.

I am not feeling desperately incomplete or like I am in a situation that needs fixing. I’m not resentful or closed off to the idea of ever being in a relationship – but I am enjoying this freedom. I am working, writing, attending classes, volunteering, and spending time with friends, but I also genuinely treasure my time alone.

Life feels full of opportunities. It reminds me of this Fred Astaire bit from the movie Top Hat. (Yes, I own it as part of a DVD box set, as I’m a bit of a Fred-and-Ginger buff.)

Why isn’t this feeling celebrated more often on film?

 

 

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Somebody strike a Match (dot-com)

Online Dating Gives me Agita  Here’s what happens every time I start to fill out an online profile: I get as far as filling out all of the questions, and then I look at the pictures of prospective dates and feel the need to flee the scene. It’s not that there are not any decent men online. There is a mix of good and bad, like everywhere else. It’s not their fault at all, since I’ve never reached the whole “Talk to online stranger” phase of the transaction. It’s just that I feel like a deli item, on display: “Please do partake of my choice cuts of pastrami.” Is it clear now why men are knocking down my door to get to the wonder that is me?

And so, I ask for your help, dear reader. Share with me your wisdom.

I Suck At Being Single. And Not in a Fun Katherine Heigl Rom-Com Kind of Way.

Who am I why am I here and what does it all mean and should this be punctuated?

Other people blog about all of the fabulous, exciting sex that is apparently waiting to be plucked from the tree of life.  I should be a cougar, right?  I should be sitting at the end of a bar ordering rusty nails and wooing the next generation of Benjamin Braddocks into my lady lair. Why doesn’t that appeal to me? Am I neutered now? Did that happen? Have I become some sort of asexual freak? Aagh. I need to go red lipstick and shiny jumpsuit shopping tomorrow. This shit isn’t funny any more. Continue reading