Warning: Adult language below!
“Tomorrow, I will wake up and work out.” I tell myself this like it is some sort of cult mantra.
The flawless body I desire is ever on the horizon.
But, right now I am wiping my mouth with my sleeve after having stuffed a whole Chipotle burrito in my face—not just my mouth, my face got it. I guess that is the joy of living some version of a Sex in the City cliché.
I do me.
I eat the food I want, work on my own timeline, muse about what else I want, and spend whole days reading and writing. But, then, it is not all beer and Skittles.
Sometimes my body starts to recall old loves and nostalgia of heated moments creep in. The holidays—the storehouses of memories—tend to stir a certain kind of angst.
If a documentary has been made and then put on Netflix, I have watched it. I tune in to drown out the ingratiating yet subtle tonality of being alone. Make no mistake, this is different than being lonely. When you are lonely, you get on Tinder and start playing dating roulette.
This is different.
First the fast food turns into farts—the kind of farts you let rip and don’t care how they smell. Plus, there is no need to hold it in because you have no one to impress. No puckering necessary. There is a certain pleasure that comes with being reckless with your bodily functions. This twinge of pleasure then scratches an itch.
But, this itch isn’t just any itch. It is fucking eczema. Somehow, months have gone by without so much as a kiss. I mean, rando sex with the tinder-target-practice squad doesn’t count. All the TV marathon eye-guzzling, left-swiping, documentary watching, vibrator tingling, naughty-bath-time is not working.
The death rattle starts to kick in. In a last ditch effort, three hours gets burned pinning on Pinterest, liking on Facebook and posting on Instagram.
Then, there it is, the empty space in your bed. In a whimper and under your breath the admission comes out, “I want a boyfriend.”
Shit.
I cannot take one more hookup. I just can’t do it. I can’t take getting wrecked by love. I can’t go through it.
The struggle is real—Oh my god, sad emoji, hash-tagging, Sam Smith in the background, earth shattering realization; I have to date. I have to put in more hard time. “Why can’t this be easy?”
No, just no. More than no, “Nope!” But, I want it so bad. I want sex, cuddles, that Justin Timberlake song Mirror and my Boo!
This then becomes decision time.
“You know, I will work out tomorrow.” “I am going to start to make better choices.” “Loneliness can suck a dick (because it certainly isn’t servicing me!)!”
Getting a boyfriend isn’t that hard. If you are a white girl, just go to yoga more, never go to a coffee shop without yoga pants and Uggs on, and show a little side-boob once in a while. Do it in real time in the real world—the place where touch actually happens.
I have no other advice for other races because it will just sound racist. Universally though, try and look your best when going out.
Personality is only backup.
In Oprah terms, “Feel good.” In Me terms, “Fake it until you make it but don’t make it fake!”
And gurl, I am in this with you. Men, you are on your own on this one. Figure it out!
So, ya, I love the life I have. I fucking love it. I mean I am head over heels in love with being a psychic relationship counselor that lives twenty-minutes from the coast in a home that is more like a spa. I am stoked. But, that does not fend off the desire to share it.
And you know what, that is perfectly healthy.
I expect things to show up right on time and they always do.
That being said, this single-thing is an art-form and I’m fucking Rembrandt.
Now for an Amy Schumer marathon because tonight I may want a life-partner, but there is only more Netflix.
Author: Rebekah McClaskey
Editor: Renée Picard
Image: author’s own
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