Walking Dumpster Fire

Single and ready to mingle. It sounds fun. It sounds exciting. It sounds like a lot of sex is about to happen. It sounds like I can devour all the men I want without an ounce of guilt. Let’s go!

But that’s not what being single really is. I have concluded that although I have had fun and excitement and lots of guilt-free sex and dates and, as my Mom would say, “I can put asses in the seats,”–I don’t know how to be single. Like, genuinely single, sitting alone on a Thursday night, in my house, making myself dinner and watching a documentary kind of single. 

The nights I have to myself when I don’t have my children or am not working, I am out. All out. Let’s have ALL THE FUN out. On nights like this, I usually wake up next to my ex. Touching and holding each other and pretending we didn’t burn our house to the fucking ground. I do this because it’s easy and better than being alone. Which is a lie I tell myself every time it happens. As I fumble around his room, collecting my things and getting dressed, my inner thoughts scream, never again, we can’t keep doing this!; only to find myself back in his bed days later while the definition of insanity laughs in our faces.

Although the ex and I have a crazy connection, the sex is fantastic, and we care very much about each other, we are also a disaster together. The highs and lows are tremendous. I have felt giddy and loved and angry and wounded, all within a 24-hour time frame. The worst versions of myself live within him. So, why do I keep doing this?

I am co-dependently single. I want his attention and his affection, but I don’t want to be attached to him. I don’t want him to call me his. I don’t want anyone to call me theirs. The idea of being in an actual relationship right now sounds itchy. For now, that is a good thing. I am glad at least one part of me is saying, hey, let’s not screw someone else’s life over right now. 

When I go on dates, I lie a bit. They ask how long I have been single, and I say about a year. Technically, that is true. Technically. I don’t tell them I banged my ex about six hours before this date and will probably do it again after it ends. And technically, this has gone on for a year.

Let’s pretend the guy I am on a date with is my Mr. Right. He is perfect for me. He is intelligent, witty, funny, has a great job, would love my children, and likes to run, hike, travel, and all that crap. Let’s pretend he is the one I am supposed to be with. But I won’t ever figure that out as long as I pretend to be single. I am not ready for Mr. Right. I would destroy Mr. Right.

It’s the idea of singlehood that is alluring to me. It sounds fantastic, like freedom and self-sufficiency, two things I absolutely adore. But it’s only good on paper. The actual reality of being single is quite terrifying. You mean, I have to eat alone! How does one even do that?! However, I have learned one thing about myself throughout the years: if something scares me or shakes me to my core, I need to do it. 

I found myself lying next to my ex the other day, once again, and I received a text from another man. The other man was cute, and he was funny. I sent a clever reply and then realized what I was doing: I was naked in bed with my previous partner and was texting a man interested in me. I am telling The Universe: I don’t know what I am doing. Luckily The Universe is brilliant, and its reply was loud and clear: be fucking single. For real.