I’ve been wondering why I have been so resistant to the label “single.”
Here’s what I came up with:
- I feel like being single is a flashlight to the world that something is wrong with me. If I was all right, I’d be plugged into the traditional institution of marriage, and I’d stay there instead of playing hot potatoe with that organization of—you are of worth. I will keep you.— Okay, now you are on your own for being you—good-bye.
- I missed the booklet on how to make relationships work, and somehow I am the defective, broken parts that are beginning to look like they can’t be fixed.
- I don’t want to be lumped into the same category as some of my former divorced associates. You know the ones, a person who can be incredibly charming, nice, and is highly intelligent, but every few weeks she blows livid, angry, long rants of vile at whoever happens to be her target that day. She’s become a joke among her friends, and they give out badges of accomplishment to those who survive this woman’s attack. They even compare notes of who got the worst lashing, but always at the end it is said, “There is a reason she is single.”
Ouch. Never. Never want to be one of those.
- There’s no one to take out the trash until my kids get older.
- The unwanted advancements from guys increase, and there’s no husband to hide behind.
- There is no saluting lid on the toilet to put down.
