I am happy as a single woman. I have said, and still say, I am content. I like to joke that I have the remote, the thermostat, and middle of the bed all to myself. It’s nice. Real nice.
I can come home from work and eat dinner, or not. There’s no one to interrupt or get jealous of the time I spend writing. I can use all of the hot water for a shower if I so choose. I can not shower if I so choose. I can leave my shoes laying about and not do dishes for a few days without having to consider the affect on another. I travel when and where I want. I can shave my legs everyday, or not, for a month, or two. These aren’t things I envision as possible in couplehood.
Selfish? Some would say so, but I’m thrilled with my life, though there are times I want for more. I’m still human.
The low tire pressure light came on in my car this morning. It would be nice to have someone to take it and fill the tires with air. Not that I would actually let someone else drive my car.
In all seriousness though, I do sometimes miss intimacy. Touch. Conversation. Laughter. Now is one of those times. I’ll probably feel a fool in a week for saying this. I don’t go looking for it. I don’t date. I don’t even try. I’m not likely to anytime soon.
While it’s true I am happy as a party of one, I simply don’t feel that I’m good enough to date. Even though I’ve been accepted for who I am by many, I don’t believe a mate, a partner, would be able to, willing to. Perhaps that’s leftover from my ex-husband who didn’t, wouldn’t, accept me without condition and a plan for change. Perhaps it’s that I know me, all the ins and outs, the good and the bad, the pretty and the ugly, the funny and the inappropriate.
I’m impossible. I’m a bitch. I’m selfish. I’m stupid. I’m also flexible and spontaneous. I’m kind. I’m generous. I’m smart. I’m human. I know this, but is human ever good enough? I have scars and tattoos. I have cellulite. I have muscles. I’m a klutz. I’m athletic. I’m not 20. I’m 35. I make mistakes and I do things right. My boobs barely fit into a B-cup, my ass, well, it’s ugly. My mind, well, it’s beautiful.
I’m human, and I know this. I also know if I can accept someone stinky farts that can accept my stinky feet. I hate socks, and sometimes I wait too long to change the insoles of my shoes. Human. And a bit lazy sometimes.
I don’t have any desire or plans to start dating, but I do wonder if I’m being silly. Why did I start thinking about this now? Friday I went with a group to a horror attraction, and within minutes of entering the exhibit I was suctioned to a man. I reached out and grabbed him and held him as tight as he held me. Saturday I wondered if that would feel as good outside of an element of sheer terror.
I know it would. I miss holding hands. I miss resting my head on a man’s shoulder. I miss feeling the comfort of a pair of arms wrapped around me at the end of the day. I miss sex. But I don’t miss it enough to do anything about it. I don’t miss it enough to risk the work I’ve done to accept myself as myself, though my acceptance needs quite a bit of work.
I’m hesitant to date because I cannot get over myself and the long list of flaws I see. I’m just not willing to take the risk of rejection, of being not good enough. I already know it. I don’t need someone confirming it for me. I’m a woman and I hear quite often how hard that is on a man. Or maybe that was just my ex-husband.
And that’s another thing. Not every man is a Donkey. He was an asshole all on his own. He isn’t making every man an asshole, but I’m afraid of meeting another Donkey. They are so hard to distinguish from the normal, kind, generous man because they work so hard to appear as normal until they have you trapped.
This time of year is hard for me. It was last year too. It was the year before as well. And the year before that. Something about Autumn sends me into a spiral of self-doubt, self-loathing. Perhaps it’s the lessening of sunshine. Perhaps it’s the changing of the environment, the bright vibrance that pops from the trees, and lacking in my life, yet I am unable to bring myself to seek what I find myself considering more frequently than I used to.
I don’t know how to date. I don’t know how to talk to men. I don’t know how. The unknown is keeping me exactly where I am. That, and the remote, the thermostat, and the middle of the bed.