I'm not as thirsty as I'd thought.

(Originally published 8/22/2006)

Water, water everywhere. Not a drop to drink.

This is my current philosophy concerning the state of my singlehood. I used to fear what I thought were the odds, as if statistically I was running out of "at-bats." The older I got, the more boys I met, the more dinner dates I crawled out of restaurant bathroom windows to escape, I worried that the well would run dry. I worried that the next big break I got at a relationship, the next chance that strolled over towards me at the gay bar, would be my last. That I would wake up one morning, the barrel of my gun empty. That was my last shot.

But I realize now that by no means are the odds against me. There are boyfriends everywhere! There’s a boyfriend for you at the grocery store! There’s a boyfriend right there next to you on the bus! Heck, there’s even a boyfriend for you at work! All you have to do to make him yours is do what so many of our friends and family members do everyday in regards to relationships. No, I’m not talking about sharing, committing, or devoting yourself to someone else whole-heartedly. That stuff’s way too hard. Put down your self-help relationship books. You don’t have to read to learn how to settle!

I think once some people hit a certain age and they still don’t have steady companionship to accompany them to office Christmas parties and family weddings, that they fear being alone more than they fear a life chained to someone with irreversible psychopathic social traits. The idea of not having someone help them take out the trash takes priority over the fact that your mate doesn’t have a job, talks too much, or is a self-hating, masochistic, gay Republican.

I’ve observed in recent months a series of random couplings, seeing single people I know, single people whom I can recall breaking up with someone because they read "The Bridges of Madison County" or because they thought Condoleezza Rice was something you found next to the Little Ben’s at the grocery store. But now, they’ve pushed aside such traits as irrelevance. I’m focused on the person’s heart, they say. Yes, indeed. I stare right past that uni-brow into their soul. And when they begin explaining to my mother their conspiracy theory that Elvis and Richard Nixon were responsible for the Pet Rock, I only hear trace whispers of comfort floating from their pierced, tattooed lips.

So, at 30, I have had to re-evaluate my place in this world. I stopped looking at couples and thinking, "What’s wrong with me?" I’ve started looking at couples and thinking, "What’s wrong with them?" Truth be told we could all get married tomorrow. I could stroll right up to the guy that stands outside of the train station, the guy who screams enraged proclamations of Jesus’ love to everyone coming in and out, and tell him that I find his words moving, beautiful, and then ask him out on a date. I could tell the guy in Accounting with pictures of Leonard Nimoy in his cubicle that I like his toupee, then see if he’d like to grab some lunch.

Sure, some couples I am still jealous of, the ones with no visible scars, where both partners speak clear English and know how to work their ATM cards. But as Father Time pushes me forward, a couple whom I honestly admire is getting harder to find than food in Nicole Richie’s refrigerator. When the majority of couples you interact with consists of one partner so undesirable that his ex-wife left him in the middle of the night, a mail order bride from Afghanistan with only 4 teeth, it’s hard to be jealous.

Settling is no longer something you only read about in history books about the Old West. It is a real and sneaky phenomenon creeping up on single folks everywhere. It’s a great thing for that guy I work with who always smells like fish, or that woman with the mullet hair cut I saw yesterday on the street. It guarantees them a shot at true love. But for me, it’s not such a good thing. My single friends are dying off, choosing a quiet night at home with their mutant boyfriends over a night out on the town chasing tail with me.

So the grass isn’t always greener. I’d rather be frustrated with the single life than frustrated because my boyfriend’s telling my boss about his scat fetish. Again. Even after I’d begged him never to share that with anyone after the way Grandma reacted.