An incredible thing happened when I announced I loved, I absolutely adored, being single.
My comment has been met—nearly universally—with raised eyebrows and a, “really?”
I really like being selfish. I like getting a full night’s sleep, or a short night’s sleep because I stayed up all night watching shitty television and writing Subway Philosophy. I like eating cold cereal in bed. I like waking up with morning breath. I like making whatever plans I goddamn feel like at any time of the day or night. I like flirting. I like going on first dates with comely men and second dates with obnoxious men and splitting the check and having a story to amuse my coworkers with in the morning. I like kissing my high school crush upstate and my magazine crush when I’m back in the city. I like walking into a room and not having to introduce someone and engage them. I like walking furious down the streets, music loud in my ears, an angry stride that takes me right past the slow-walkers and the cell-talkers like a real Manhattan marathon. I like taking up the sheets and blankets and pillows and entire length of my bed.
I like it, if you can believe it. And I’m goddamn good at it.
I’m not sure if this ever comes across. Do I sound like a man eater or a saboteur? Maybe I am. I’ve been psychoanalyzed before.
I think, maybe, this is healthy. I think it’s good.
But my friends don’t. The ones who are coupled are offended. The ones who are looking for a date are perplexed. The men think I’m emotionally offensive. The women find me catastrophic competition. Why be on the market if I’m not looking to be taken off?
Well, I love the market.
—And that’s another thing. I love going food shopping for one.