So, I'm going through one of those phases where I get to spend a lot of time by myself.
You know the kind--where most or all of your friends (Love you, Meg!) suddenly seem to think you have died, or perhaps just that you are a total bitch, or maybe even only that you are way super busy; when in fact you are at home sitting on your ass wishing your friends wanted to do stuff. The kind where you have absolutely no dates lined up, haven't had a decent one in months, and can see the rest of your sexual life as one long, dark, tunnel of gloom and crazy-cat-lady-ness. The kind where, when you call your grandmother to chat for the first time in a while, she doesn't answer or call you back, and your mother has to explain to you that she is down in Arkansas with your aunt doing lots of fun shopping and playing with her other grandkids. The kind where the aerospace engineer you are casually and carefully trying to date freaks out on you because you tried to explain the difference between inductive and deductive logic, tells you that science is infallible and you can go f*ck yourself, and you dump him on the spot and spend the next few weeks irrationally hating gross couple-y love songs. (Seriously, these things happen to me.)
At first this kind of bothered me. Okay, it bothered me a lot. Okay, it bothered me enough that I dropped the f-bomb on the phone with my mother when she tried to give me some advice and I thought she was talking about how all of my friends had disappeared.
Then--maybe it was yesterday, or the day before--I decided I was just going to like it. As an introvert, having a whole lot of time to myself isn't really that awful, and only two or three posts ago I was going on and on about not having enough time to do the things I want to do. I suppose that if I had chosen an area of my life from which to steal some time for myself, it wouldn't have been the "friendship" or the "dating" area, but hey, whatever. Beggars can't be choosers.
And this made me think about just how much we take for granted, all the time.
No one likes being miserable. I have been so grumpy for the past couple of weeks, when really I should be pretty happy that I finally got some time to myself, like I wanted. And there I was feeling crappy about getting exactly what I wished for! I always hated the book Bridget Jones' Diary for that exact reason: Bridget spends all of her terrifically witty English time bitching about not having a boyfriend, and then when she does all she does is complain about him, and then when he dumps her she goes back to bitching about not having one--and meanwhile, all of her friends who have relationships are crying about those. Don't they have anything else to worry about? Isn't there anything nice about having another person sleep in the same bed as you? Is it mandatory that they have to complete you fully as a person, in exactly the same way as Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice (also, I totally do not understand the obsession with that book. It bores me. Persuasion is so much better, but if we want to go with totally epic love stories, read The Hero and the Crown) did for Elizabeth? Can't everyone just be happy with the fact that someone loves them?
And, similarly, can't I just be happy with the fact that, for now, I don't have that, or the millions of obligations that go with it? No one else leaves his dirty dishes in my sink, or leaves the toilet seat up, or makes vaguely disparaging jokes about my cat, or the fact that I'm reading the Twilight series. I don't have to show up at anyone's house when they're having a bad day when all I want to do is take a bath and do some yoga. No one sends me their stupid essays on pro wrestling, and if they do, I can just delete them, instead of pretending to be impressed by their questionable mental prowess. I can go away for the weekend whenever I actually have a free weekend, and I can hang out with whoever I want. I can do whatever I want. Isn't that great? Won't I kind of miss this when I do have someone who leaves his socks everywhere? Won't that be what I'm complaining about then? God, let me never end up like Bridget Jones. I want to thoroughly enjoy being single, so that, when I am not, I can thoroughly enjoy that too, and not be kicking myself over not appreciating my freedom. Spare me from a midlife crisis.
My twenty-fourth birthday is coming up, and I can do whatever I want to celebrate it. I can fly home for the weekend, or stay in and read novels, or go out and have a beer with one of the friends I still have. If I want to have a Wiccan ceremony in my condominium's pool wearing nothing but a tea cozy, I can (at least until the cops show up). And now I have time to devote to all of those Things I Want To Do.
So here is day one of Appreciating What I Have When I Have It, Rather Than Later.
And, by the way, science is totally fallible. That's the motherf*cking point. Science can't "prove" anything, it can only gather evidence that supports a conclusion, and if you manage to find evidence that negates that same conclusion, you should probably correct your conclusion. Science is a method for learning, not a religion. And if you made it through four years of engineering without learning that, I fear for the future of our country.
God, I'm so glad I'm single.