Being single — even when you’re completely content being on your own — is a waiting game. There is a pregnant pause. A hope. A breath-holding until things change.
I like to assume that being single is temporary (for heaven’s sake, I’m not going to be partnerless for the entirety of my life, am I?? Sometimes it feels that way…), so that produces this sense of expectation of change just around the corner.
It’s tough. Partnered friends are fond of saying, “It’ll happen when you least expect it.”
But…it’s impossible not to expect it. Unless you’ve completely given up hope, and that’s a bleak outlook.
They like to say, “Focus on you and then the right man will come along.”
Believe: me, myself, and I have been having a threesome for quite a while. On one hand, I thoroughly enjoy my company and need no one else…on the other hand, sometimes you need a break from yourself. Know what I mean?
I wrote this poem at age 20, when being single was something completely different…and yet shockingly the same as it is at 41.
i try to get
my key in the slot before
the headlights ooze out of the driveway.
but i don’t.
and i am left
in blind darkness
outside my apartment.
i anticipate my bath,
the melting warmth,
the euphoric feeling that comes
with sliding into just the right
temperature and depth.
when i’m alone
(and when I’m not)
i talk to my cats.
i never seem to notice that
they don’t respond.
i always answer the phone on the first
ring, nonchalantly seeming as if i’m
not hoping it’s my
destiny on the other end.