Dirty Word

When people, manly women my own age, ask me if I'm single, I often reply apologetically that I am. Like I've just uttered at dirty word. I hate it that I react that way. I feel like I'm letting them down, because I don't' have anything to relate to them about. I can't commiserate on annoying boyfriends, or share my engagement story or amuse them with my agonizing wedding planning stories. I feel like I am a failure. I'm afraid that they pity me, and although one quite nicely told me that I should enjoy my single status for as long as possible, and sometimes she wished that she was still single, I know she wouldn't trade her life for anything. I just don't want the pity.

This is mostly self-imposed, I know this.

Most recently I don't even have fun single-girl stories to share. D has gone back to Florida without so much as a backwards glance, G is in Japan, and My Crush has become My Annoyance. I haven't heard from him in a week and a half and now I'm just wondering what the his purpose in asking me out in the first place was? Maybe I was just a bad kisser?

Well maybe we won't go that far.

The weekend has been okay, but every experience seemed to shove my single status in my face. I beautiful wedding shower with a fun, happy couple and sitting at a table of three married girls my own age, for one. I'm beyond happy for the couple, but you can't help but sit there and wonder if you'll ever get to experience something like that for yourself.

Last night I went out with my brothers and their significant others. It was fun and I love hanging out with them, but being the fifth wheel is never fun in that situation and then afterwards at the annoyingly hip Gypsy Bar, I couldn't help be disgusted by the scene.

"I think he wanted to dance with you." My sister-in-law shouted over the overbearing techno music.

I think I physically shuddered. I'm sure he's a very nice man, (doubtful) but the whole image of the club goers is such a turn off. I just wanted to be home, curled up in bed.

Even as I'm sitting here watching the US Open, I can't help but pathetically wonder where MY Andy Roddick, ahem, I mean Prince Charming is.