Why is this compound, yet simple two-word statement so difficult for me to face head-on? l break it into its two-word structure. For the first time in many years I am being me. That’s not right, I was being me back then, the times I now scoff at as the struggle I learned to give up. I was no less me, back then. So the being part must be decimated first.
If being means coming to grips with the lessons life has pounded me over the head with for decades now, then we are in the age of learning. How much of the negatives do I allow to really take over my thoughts and actions? Which slights in life do I take seriously? The word “chill” comes to mind. There are only so many days in total so what is really important, the first sallow green shoots of Spring or the shit-head whose comment could have ruined my day or set my mind in a perpetual orbit of Planet Pissed Off? A week from now will it really matter?
Moving on to the second part of our dilemma, the word single. Approaching my 60th year on this earth I find my bed empty of human forms. (It is not lacking in other species.) Ordinarily, this would send me into an immediate Joni Mitchell-Song-For-Sharon-Moment of
“…Well there’s a wide wide world of noble causes
And lovely landscapes to discover
But all I really want to do right now
Is find another lover”
Single is the ultimate “Stinky Me” time, to the point where you wish someone would distract you. Single is the comfort of not being responsible beyond filling dishes with kibble and scratching heads. I have been alone before, perhaps not for this long a stretch, but certainly with the same over-active mind admonishing me for my personal failures somehow reflected in the fact that I am mateless.
I prefer to comfort myself with the fact the anyone who could see beyond my hermit lifestyle of writing and working at the store, would to be too much like me. I like me, but I don’t want date me.