In my twenties I obsessed about being single. And then I’d stop obsessing and enter a serene and unbothered state. I was single and it was terrible, the worst thing, evidence of everything that I’d ever secretly suspected was the matter with me. Record scratch. I was single and it was a neutral thing, pleasant at times, nothing for me to worry about. I went in and out of panic. I went in and out of patience.
I realise now I didn’t much mind the facts of being single. Okay yes, there were lonely times, nights when I’d reach for a warm hand in the bed that hadn’t been there for some time. But I was good alone, happy to have more time to spend with myself, with friends and family, discovering what there was to know about the world without having to moderate my behavior because of the rules of monogamy or someone else’s available annual leave. It is an unbelievable pleasure to do the things you want to do for no other reason than you want to do them. To book the flight when you want, to spend the unexpected paycheck only on yourself, to say yes to the person in the bar asking you to go home with them. To forget a name. To decline a second meeting.
No, what I hated about being single was how other people talked about it, like it was a sickness that grew less and less treatable as each year passed. It was a slightly sexy leprosy that they didn’t want to catch (maybe just for a weekend, and only if their partner was also down to get a little sick, but certainly not forever.) I’m sure things are better for single people now than they have been in the past, but it’s still exhausting to see the glint of pity or (and this is often worse) the rapt interest of someone long-partnered who sees you as an exotic loser, a traveller from far-off lands they can plunder for stories of ‘Tinder’ and humiliating one night stands.