Author, Carrie Thompson

 

A coworker asked me just that, a beautiful female account manager at the top floor of her Sony penthouse office in downtown Culver City. Geri was her name, beautiful long locs down hung down her hourglass. Whenever the question rears its redundant head I shudder. It wasn’t coming from a place of malice or prodding, insult nor belittling, she was and is genuinely baffled. As am I Geri, as am I.

 

Why am I still single?

 

I thought long and hard about it. The context of the question is an implication that I am avoided or missing out on something that is abundant. Is that truly the case? Is being in a relationship a 100% positive 100% of the time? As you know I’ve ran into my fair share of BS: Beth Murphy to Scotland I’ve kissed some frogs, and I’ve kissed about 16 more just to pass the time. That’s not what brought me to the conclusion of why I am still single. 

 

Being single is NOT where you wait around for a guy to swipe right and pick you out of a lineup. Being single is where you wait for an equally yoked traveller to fulfill the undisclosed petitions of teenage wishes, things written in your diary and casted off as fantasy. Being single is where you build the armor to deflect bullshit making it easier to detect since you are not desperate for attention. Being single is not a punishment, or a scarlet letter, or a stamp of incompatibility. Being single should be a choice. Am I tired of being single? Would I want to get married tomorrow? Yes and Yes ma’am. But not to the sophomoric, city-slicker who uses his d**k like a hypodermic needle. 

 

For moi, being single, it’s a must. There are unfinished chapters of my personal development, spiritual growth, business acumen that must be mapped out, and who a better cartographer than oneself? Here are the reasons why I believe I must, maybe you also, should remain single for the forseeable future.

 

 

I am the friend everyone calls with drama and sob stories. It is an honor to be the trusted shepherd of emotion but it can be exhausting. There are only so many neurons of which my nerves can operate on without compulsion of slapping, hanging up, or kicking someone out of my apartment. Being in a relationship, that person’s concerns are your concerns by association, lofty to mundane, and right now I don’t want to hear anything from anyone. It would be nice if someone would ask me how the hell I’m doing and be truly interested in the response.

 

 

Queen of the disappearing act. Parties and concerts I go to, subsequently vanishing. I’m in public one minute, reminded of how mankind behaves, and I’m back to hermit/recluse extraordinaire. If an activity doesn’t deeply interest me I’m not wasting one nanosecond further or step farther. 

 

Most run from their thoughts, hiding in crowds and in the arms of a lover. Evading truths that creep into their mind on a silent car ride or in an empty bed. There is so much I must figure out about myself and I cannot thumb through the pages of my psyche by being a hedonist, surfing crowds of revelry. Growing compassion toward the needs of others means recognizing that some people need the physical shoulder of another to get by. Which means donating time to things above and beneath my regard.

 

 

I’ve recently joined a church and attend twice a week regularly, and man oh man, is it such a Downtown Los Angeles church. We allow people to just be: gay, transgender, homeless. I’ve met so many fellow travellers that have reminded me real love is not only found in couples or bloodlines. I need to be around other big hearts, which would not have happened by putting a man before God, which I am guilty of. Going to church is corroding ‘the wall’ slowly. 

 

 

One word: hypocrisy. I have not yet achieved the financial prerequisites I’ve required of mates in the past. Scrubs are never the plan, but I should be one-upping my past gains and zip code. Now I’ve never asked a man for a thing, if he offers it I won’t say no, but money has never exchanging hands in return for a subservient woman. Money is a tool not a carrot to chase. I’m opening a self-directed IRA at the age of 28 and purchasing a couple of short-term maturity date bank CD’s to grow and diversify under the direction of fiduciaries I’ve met ascending the corporate rungs. The new plan: create a life so opulent it deflects the unmotivated. 

 

 

Generation Y are (typically) the most effeminate, silly excuses for men I have ever seen. Why is it most men my age know more about rap lyrics, Xbox live, and Instagram celebs than political representatives of their given district? If that is how a man spends his time, electronically entertained, that’s a turn off. The most attractive thing about a person is how s/he spends their time. Is it not? 

 

Masculinity can be whatever you say it is (I have a several transgender friends), but my definition involves more ingenuity than writing a check for someone else to figure out how to change an oil filter or install a ceiling fan. People have strengths in differing fields, being a damn good businessman is dead sexy but it doesn’t negate the need for good, old-fashioned elbow grease. *Shout-out to Latino men who have not failed their women on that note.

 

 

I wish I was kind of a dumb college girl again who gives it up to the guys who make me feel special for 10 seconds – no I don’t. Knowing who and what you deserve can be a discouraging business. You can’t even have a guy over or let him take you out without him feeling entitled more, and when you do meet a guy who’s not sex-crazed, it’s oftentimes not a firework attraction. It would be so much easier to disconnect head from heart for a night and just let a guy have his way with me, but…

 

 

Too many people out there acting as if they’re winning getting laid all the time with dry, forced, happenstance sex that would do nothing but depress me. I dated an ex-Dallas Cowboy and a famous actor and both were the worst sex I’ve ever had in my entire life. It was too rough, and they weren’t ‘meeting me half-way.’ The best sex I’ve ever had in my life with a shoe salesman. You never know which guy has got that fire, but I’m not dumpster diving to find out, I’ll wait on my king. I cannot have bad sex, I would rather masturbate at home alone with a box of wine. No shame about it.

 

You can be a work in progress, in a relationship with yourself, all the while a masterpiece. I am in love with my selfish, imperfect ass. The success I’m attracting in numerous ventures is my relationship, I am a maternal guide to women around me through the mistakes I’ve made. While being averse to all the sophistries of both dating and singlehood, why is riding solo an abomination? As the years go on, people tend to pity and shame if one is not married or knocked up whether the female is wealthy or on public aid.

 

When I get home, I kick my feet up, write, no drama, no one to cater to. No tempestuous household or bad sex just to ‘keep a man.’ No compromising on deal-breakers just so I’ll have someone to bring to Thanksgiving dinner. I’m staying true to my convictions and staying single until I’m ripened. For my husband I am a planted, a bulbous species, many potent layers for him to peel back deterring weak eyes with a cool and mild core, like an onion. I’ve figured it out, I’m not single, I’m an onion!

 

Agree or disagree? Tell me all about it in the comments section!