The Singles Club

 Also known as The Illusion of the Duo-Toned Lawn (and Why the Grass is Always Greener)

Sadly, this blog has come to a point where I can’t shy away from exploring the most-flipped-to section of my magazine—relationships. Today, I have no 101 tips to Blow (his mind), nor 80 positions That’ll Kill Your Back (But Will Keep Your Passion Alive). No, I have nothing useful—I have but myriad ramblings, packaged pretty in large words (and some small, but super-intelligent words like frisson) for some kind soul’s reading pleasure (or to be a page to skim while a YouTube video buffers). I have nothing to give except shady vibes and scrambled thoughts, attempting to sort through the age-old myth—that a relationship is the ultimate goal of a love life.

This might seem a natural assumption—do we not all want our cartoon cat to snuggle with, marathon hilarious sitcoms with, crunch on chips and popcorn with? Yes, our ideal is the man/woman who will not scamper off in frighten at our bleached faces or hole-in-the-bottom boxers, and will love us through every coughing fit, crusty nose and bout of emotional hara-kiri. We figure, we find ‘em, and we can officially start getting fat and letting our moustaches grow. 

It’s easy to coast toward this goal, to believe that this quintessential paragon of relationship joy will swoop in announced, and that it will be a happy change because, heck! What is the life we’ve worked for thus far but a way to pass time till perfection takes over. 

No, this is not a discourse on the aftermath of finding that relationship. I will not tut-tut about disillusionment, about the lovable little oddities turning irksome, of the sheen of passion fading to unveil time-worn machinery that can’t function without a hint of a scraping noise. This little rant is less poignant, far less relatable and far more self-indulgent.

It’s essentially just Single Girl Nostalgia.

A quick word in my own, pre-emptive defence—I wouldn’t trade my happy relationship for the world. I love it. I love fall asleep to the rhythm of someone’s breath, coming home to have someone wrap me up in their arms, subjecting someone to my Suits reruns. I love every part of it. If my boyfriend is reading this, I love you. 

And NOW that I’ve stuck that blinking disclaimer at the top, I’d like to say that being single is terribly underrated. It’s got this Cathy comic bad reputation of high candy intake and sorrow and drunken sex and it’s so unfair because it’s much more than that. The wide-held belief is that people that yearn for singlehood are people that are unhappy in their relationships; but my theory is somewhat atypical.

Ah, To Be Young and Trashy Again. (Circa 2014)

It’s sort of like choosing an ice-cream flavour. You try a bunch before you settle with one (unlike back in the day, where taster spoons for a few sneak-peak molecules weren’t handed out willy-nilly) and no matter how good that Peanut Butter Brinkle is, you miss that you’re not having chocolate. You don’t exactly want to switch your scoop in, but still, you can’t help but miss it.

 Sadly, singlehood/relationships don’t have a double-decker option (a sexual double-decker…not as appealing somehow).

I miss the boredom of coming home with nothing to do. I miss that sting of desperate hope that an attractive man might catch my layered eyes (new phraseology for glasses).  I miss going out with girlfriends and going home together, falling into one of our beds together instead of our own beds, without each other. I miss cooking for one, unashamed that my dinner will be bourbon biscuits and cheese. I miss having someone pop round in the a.m. and decide they want to use my bathroom, have a drink and leave. I miss being able to change my mind and head out after just stepping foot in the house, just because I’m not yet done with the gorgeous weather. 

I miss that. But not as much as I’d miss my cartoon cat.