Capping off an already splendid day, I have a cyst that won’t go away, so I’m on my way to the doctor just to be 100% sure I’m not dying. I’m ALMOST positive, but symptoms of lady cancer are, like, fatigue, upset stomach, and menstrual changes — so, you know, not at ALL vague things most women have.
I hate needing medical attention anywhere in my vagina’s orbit. My gyno and I have a once-yearly relationship and I’m pretty OK with that. I’m not really looking for anything next-level.
Plus the only available doctor is male, which makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve had a man in the region. I’m all self-conscious about it and spiffed it up a bit, as if otherwise mine could possibly be the most offensive vagina he’ll see today.
Today I saw my psychiatrist (ie, my Drug Czar, not Talky Therapist — it takes a village, y’all). And she thinks I should start dating again, before I “get used to being alone.”
Um… How ’bout “Shut up and give me my drugs?” You’re not the boss of me. Talky Therapist is. (Though, um, Talky Therapist also thinks I should.)
You’re shrinks. Shouldn’t I be OK being alone? Shouldn’t I be happy with myself before I bring in a Crazy copilot? Did you HEAR me tell you about the last times I tried dating?
“Well, you can just date casually. You don’t have to sleep with them.”
Well, no, I don’t HAVE to. But if history is any indication, I WILL. If I kiss (and I really NEED to kiss), I will tease, and then the man will end up touching the “on” switch on my neck, then I will lose my tenuous-at-best “lady” decorum, and then suddenly we’re post-coital, and he wants me to spend Christmas with him or leave a toothbrush at his place, and then I’m hyperventilating and doing The Fadeaway because I am a big fat coward.
I don’t feel like dating right now. I’m not cute in the winter, all shrouded in big bulky sweaters and corduroy pants. (Though, it’s supposed to be fucking 74 degrees in Philadelphia on Thursday, so I guess that’s not a valid defense right now.) But generally, sundresses are more my wheelhouse.
And by the way? I LIKE being alone. I’m pretty rad. That’s how I’ll know when I’m ready to deal with a relationship — if I wouldn’t rather be alone than with the guy. This almost never happens. Normally it’s “UGH, I have to…TALK to someone? And…shave things? This will not stand!”
*sigh*
On one hand, I don’t think it’s fair to potential dates that I would be comparing them at least a little to these previous relationships. But Talky Therapist tells me that’s actually a good thing, because I know what I want and what I don’t. Also, I do understand it’s not doing me any good to sit and wallow about any man who, perhaps over-simplistically, doesn’t want to be with me. So maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go check out OkCupid again. (I’m not going to meet anyone in a bar, that’s not my scene. I wanna get with a dude who steps to me in a Barnes & Noble — instead of sending me a drink from across a bar, he can send his favorite book and preferably a scone.)
If nothing else, attempting to date will give me good stories here. So here’s to 2016 being the year I finally get some. (And blah blah blah, true love, soulmates, rainbows — FINE. If I happen to find that while rubbing up against people, then yay for me.)
I’m looking for a full-time job, and I think it’d be spectacularly twisted if I ended up getting the one I’m applying for at a wedding magazine.
“Nope, not married. No foreseeable plans to get married — severe, possibly permanent damage about the entire idea, actually. But I’ve been in a committed relationship with pretty dresses and shiny objects my entire life, and I envy people who have the emotional capacities to commit to a lifelong relationship when I can’t even commit to a shampoo.”
Plus, I mean… inside access to the wedding industry would make for some amazing blog posts.
I may be the only woman in the world who feels smothered when someone asks to see her again a week after a first date.
“Didn’t I just see you? No. Because I don’t want to. No, there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re nice. Nope, no other plans. I just want to stay home alone and stare at the wall. Also, I’m menstruating so we’re not going to be having sex — do we know how to do anything else?”
Or, hey, apparently my moods swing and slam themselves into things more often than George of the Jungle, so feel free to ask again tomorrow. Every day in my psyche is partly sunny with a 50% chance of either needy or misanthropic. You just gotta roll the dice.
Smug Singleton 