It’s certainly no anomaly to find myself at home alone on a Saturday night. Sure, I’ve got a bottle or two of red to keep me company, but there’s no man, no tears, and no thoughts of I wish I was with so and so.

A glass of Merlot takes it hold…

If I’m being as honest as humanly possible, I would have to admit that I miss the erotic touch from a man that I physically and emotionally crave, or the comfort of coming home to someone who’s as wrapped up in my well-being as I am. Those are things that even the independent woman in me wants, but I’ve been single for so long now that I can’t remember if those things are worth the compromise and sacrifice that a relationship takes.

Here’s my romantic history in brief. From high school up through the months after graduating college, I was a serial serious relationship gal, with the most supreme of relationships resulting in an engagement that never came to fruition. After a few bitter and judgmental years I found Dave. I loved Dave but Dave did not love me back – he barely appreciated me and we stopped having regular sex – so I cheated because I desperately wanted to be desired. The cheating broke me so I ended it, though that turned out to be a strange and sad experience, because in the process I learned that I didn’t want to lose him, but that he was fine with losing me. The whole ordeal again soured me on relationships.

Two years post Dave, I feel like I’ve reached a state of personal relationship zen. Neither am I in search of or opposed to a relationship, I just am. I’m doing my own thing, and I desperately want that to be a professional win for me.

I don’t know why, but every time I’ve been serious about a man I’ve let that relationship dictate way too much about my life. Maybe it’s that realization or some other fucked up flaw, but each man that I’ve become emotionally connected to since Dave has been unavailable in more ways than one.

To say that I wasn’t slightly comforted by these men and their respective off-limits vibe would be a lie. I was extremely conscious of the fact that I could never fully have the type of life-draining relationship with these men that I’ve had in the past. It just wasn’t physically possible. Did I use them for affection or attention? I think it was a mutually beneficial pity party that always ended badly for both parties. One person always begins to care more, and that’s when trouble starts to brew.

So here again I find myself on a Saturday night with no love interest and really no perspectives on the horizon. The peace I have is derived from knowing that I’m not waiting for any calls or trying to decipher the subtext that is man’s way of expressing his interest, I am just me being me.

Two glasses of the previously mentioned Merlot, Jon Foreman’s, The Cure for Pain, is playing, and the air is thick with reflection and solidarity…”So blood is fire pulsing through our veins. We’re either writers or fools behind the reigns. I’ve spent ten years trying to sing it all way, but the water keeps on falling from my tries.”

I just want something that works, but society wants me to settle down, get married, and have babies. Heck at this point I think my parents would gladly settle for a bastard grandchild in lieu of the nothingness that they’ve come to expect. Extended family seem to think it appropriate to always ask about a significant other. There never is one to report.

“It’s not as if New York City burned down to the ground when you drove away…are we breaking up? Did my heart break enough this time?” – Rilo Kiley, Breakin’ Up

It feels good to be free. Unavailable men, ex-fiances, abusers and controllers, they’ve all been eradicated from my life, and this independent woman wants to rejoice in that fact. But why am I still craving the carnivorous lust of a man who can’t stand to be in the same room with me without ripping off my clothes. Sexual frustration? Maybe. Human disposition playing a cruel joke on yours truly? More likely. Quixotic social preconditions influencing my thinking? That sounds right.

Let’s just say I’m one narcissistic creative junkie (remember the wine and music quotes?) who needs an outlet. I’ve chosen writing to be that outlet. Someday I’ll choose love.

Bottle of Merlot finit.

*Photo courtesy of Greg_e on Flickr

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