Recently, It seems like everybody has hitched a ride on the love train or is sailing off to a land of promises and nuptials upon the love boat, and they are so secure in their bliss and contentment that there is no need for life jackets or inflatable life rafts. The ship of love has sailed and I didn't get on it.
I'm like the iceberg in the distance or the jagged reef of rocks just under the water line.
I missed the boat and like some forgotten old wreck, I'm rotting. But then again, betrothed or not, we all are, slowly.
The thing is - I'm still on the shelf. I'm the last of the singletons amongst my friends, my family and even the people I can't stand. I'm like the last over ripe plum.
I've been groped, prodded, tossed around and then thrown back out of the shopping cart. I'm the banana that's on the turn or the last hairy coconut, although I'm not quite in the bargain bin just yet.
What I'm trying to say is that although I'm a bit bruised and I'm halfway to battered, I'm still a peach and I'm a happy peach too.
The days of the Bridget Jones clone or the single 30/40/50 something who is still looking for love are over. Independence, sexual freedom and splashing your cash on no one but yourself is the way forward. The rules of love are there no rules, forward thinking is "me first" thinking and pleasing yourself comes before pleasing others. "Her indoors" and "my old man" grew up, bought new shoes and are out playing the dating game but for the others who thought "I'll take the career" or "I'll wait for the right one to come along"?
We're fine on our own thank you.
I don't mind being single. I like the freedom it gives me and I absolutely love sleeping alone. There is nowhere in the world more fun than my bed - even when I'm the only one in it.
I like wandering around my apartment in my underwear and I sometimes like just sitting in the corner, with the lights off, no TV, no music and no distractions. Choosing a career as a writer is a solitary one and I like playing solitaire.
I can eat what I want. If one night I want to drink a glass of champagne and eat a tin of cold beans I can. If I want to eat a mashed potato sandwich and help it down with an ice cream float I can do that too. Who's to judge?
Who's to tell me I can't eat this and I can't drink that? But then again, who the hell is going to do the washing up? If I decide I want to run the bath until the water runs cold then that's my business.
If I want to light twenty candles and then fall promptly asleep then it's only me who's going to wake up with singed toes and a blackened face. I have a smoke alarm, I don't need a significant other and if I want to spend all night sobbing gently into my pillow?
I can do that too, there's no one there to hear my cry in the dark.
I refuse to have restrictions put upon me and I have no boundaries I'm not allowed to cross, I can spend the whole day miaowing like a cat if I want to! I don't have to live by anybody else's rules or regulations and I don't have to be crippled by someone else's insecurities, I'm free and I'm free to be me. I'm not bitter, I'm truly happy that everyone's getting hitched, knocked up, banged up and shacked up.
But more than that, I'm happy for me.
Happy to be me, happy to meet me and happy to know me. But let me ask you this?
After reading this could you imagine anyone wanting to go out with me?
I can't either . . . . .